I wondered, while I paced along: So variously seemed all things wrought, And wherefore rather I made choice FAITH. From "In Memoriam.”— Ibi L That which we dare invoke to bless; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye; If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, A warmth within the breast would melt No, like a child in doubt and fear: But that blind clamor made me wise; And what I seem beheld again What is, and no man understands; That reach through nature, moulding men. HYMN OF TRUST. O Love Divine, that stooped to share We smile at pain while Thou art near! Though long the weary way we tread, When drooping pleasure turns to grief, On Thee we fling our burdening woe, Living and dying, Thou art near! EXTRACT FROM "ABT VOGLER." O. W. Holmes. Robert Browning. Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable Name? Doubt that Thy power can fill the heart that Thy power expands? There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; All we have willed or hoped, or dreamed of good, shall exist; The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, Enough that He heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fulness of the days? How we withered or agonized ! Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rush the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. Adelaide Anne Procter. Strive; yet I do not promise, The prize you dream of to-day, Will not fade when you think to grasp it, Wait; yet I do not tell you, The hour you long for now, Will not come with its radiance vanished, With a crown of starry light, An hour of joy you know not Pray; though the gift you ask for Yet pray, and with hopeful tears; But diviner, will come one day; VERY SLOW MOVEMENT. THE CLOSING SCENE. Within this sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills, T. B. Read. Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, Th' embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, On slumb❜rous wings the vulture tried his flight, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew; His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst, the jay within the elm's tall crest, Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, An early harvest and a plenteous year. Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast, To warn the reapers of the rosy east: All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow, through all the dreary gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Re-gave the swords - but not the hand that drew Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped, her head was bow'd. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, Gray. |