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’T was but a phantom-life

That seemed to think and will, Evolving self and God

By some subjective skill ; That had its day of passage hither, But knew no whence, and knows no whither.

If this be all in all ;

Life but one mode of force; Law but the plan which binds

The sequences in course : All essence, all design

Shut out from mortal ken :-
We bow to Nature's fate,

And drop the style of men!
The summer dust the wind wafts hither,
Is not more dead to whence and whither.

But if our life be life,

And thought, and will, and love Not vague unconscious airs

That o'er wild harp-strings move;
If consciousness be aught

Of all it seems to be,
And souls are something more

Than lights that gleam and flee: Though dark the road that leads us thither, The heart must ask its whence and whither.

To matter or to force

The All is not confined ; Beside the law of things

Is set the law of mind; One speaks in rock and star,

And one within the brain ; In unison at times,

And then apart again : And both in one have brought us hither, That we may know our whence and whither.

WHENCE AND WHITHER.

333

The sequences of law

We learn through mind alone; 'Tis only through the soul

That aught we know is known :With equal voice she tells

Of what we touch and see
Within these bounds of life,

And of a life to be;
Proclaiming One who brought us hither,
And holds the keys of whence and whither.

O shrine of God that now

Must learn itself with awe!
O heart and soul that move

Beneath a living law !
That which seemed all the rule

Of nature, is but part;
A larger, deeper law

Claims also soul and heart.
The force that framed and bore us hither
Itself-at once is whence and whither.

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We may not hope to read

Or comprehend the whole
Or of the law of things,

Or of the law of soul :
E'en in the eternal stars

Dim perturbations rise ;
And all the searcher's search

Does not exhaust the skies :
He who has framed and brought us hither
Holds in his hands the whence and whither.

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He in his science plans

What no known laws foretell ;
The wandering fires and fixed

Alike are miracle :

The common death of all,

The life renewed above,
And both within the scheme

Of that all-circling love.
The seeming chance that cast us hither,
Accomplishes his whence and whither.

Then, though the sun go up

His beaten azure way,
God may fulfill his thought,

And bless his world to-day;
Beside the law of things

The law of mind enthrone,
And, for the hope of all,

Reveal himself in one;
Himself the way that leads us thither,
The All-in-all the Whence and Whither.

FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE.

The Ascension.

OUR Lord is risen from the dead,

Our Jesus is gone up on high;
The powers of hell are captive led,

Dragged to the portals of the sky.

There his triumphal chariot waits,

And angels chant the solemn lay!
“ Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates !

Ye everlasting doors, give way!

“ Loose all your bars of massy light,

And wide unfold the ethereal scene;
He claims these mansions as his right;-

Receive the King of Glory in !”

GETHSEMANE.

335

Who is the King of Glory, who?-

The Lord that all our foes o'ercame :
The world, sin, death, and hell o'erthrew,

And Jesus is the Conqueror's name.

Lo! his triumphal chariot waits,

And angels chant the solemn lay;
“ Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates !

Ye everlasting doors, give way!"

Who is the King of Glory, who?

The Lord of boundless power possessed ;
The King of saints and angels too;
God over all, forever blessed !

CHARLES WESLEY,

Gethsemane.

I

READ how, in Gethsemane,

The suffering Saviour bowed the knee :
My tears fell fast upon the book, —
It was so grandly sad to read.
Of Him, in darkness, grief, and need
It seemed to me that I could look

Through all thy shades, Gethsemane,
And see the One who died for me.

I too had my Gethsemane :
The hour of darkness came to me,

And none was by to watch or aid :
In grief and fear I drank, alas,
The bitter cup that would not pass-
Then like my Lord I knelt and prayed,

And in my own Gethsemane
I found the One who died for me.

WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Pilgrimage.

G

'IVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,

My staffe of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joye-immortal diet-

My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage ;
-And thus I take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,
While my soul, like peaceful palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Other balm will not be given.

Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains,
There will I kiss
The bowle of blisse,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken-hill :
My soul will be a-dry before;
But after that will thirst no more.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

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