STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone,-
The Holy Spirit pleads,-
And Jesus on the eternal throne,
For sinners intercedes.

O Thou, by whom we come to God!
The Life-the Truth-the Way!
The path of prayer thyself hast trod,
Lord, teach us how to pray!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Strive, Wait, and Pray.

STRI

TRIVE: yet I do not promise

The prize you dream of to-day
Will not fade when you think to grasp it,
And melt in your hand away;
But another and holier treasure,

You would now perchance disdain, Will come when your toil is over, And pay you for all your pain.

Wait yet I do not tell you

The hour you long for now

Will not come with its radiance vanished,
And a shadow upon its brow;
Yet, far through the misty future,
With a crown of starry light,
An hour of joy you know not
Is winging her silent flight.

Pray though the gift you ask for
May never comfort your fears-
May never repay your pleading--
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears;

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An answer, not that you long for,
But choicer, will come one day;
Your eyes are too dim to see it,

Yet strive, and wait, and pray.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

Incompleteness.

N

OTHING resting in its own completeness, Can have worth or beauty: but alone, Because it leads and tends to farther sweetness, Fuller, higher, deeper than its own.

Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning,
Gracious though it be, of her blue hours;
But is hidden in her tender leaning

Toward the summer's richer wealth of flowers

Dawn is fair, because her mists fade slowly

Into day which floods the world with light; Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy,

Just because it ends in starry night.

Life is only bright when it proceedeth

Toward a truer, deeper Life above : Human love is sweetest when it leadeth To a more divine and perfect love.

Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow
From strife that in a far-off future lies;
And angel glances veiled now by life's sorrow
Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes.

Learn the mystery of progression duly :

Do not call each glorious change decay; But know we only hold our treasures truly, When it seems as if they passed away.

THE GIFTS OF GOD.

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness,

In that want their beauty lies; they roll
Toward some infinite depth of love and sweetness,
Bearing onward man's reluctant soul.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

The Gifts of God.

WHEN God at first made man,

WHEN

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Having a glass of blessings standing by; "Let us," said he, pour on him all we can; Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,

Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;

Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure;
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

"For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; So both should losers be.

"Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be sick and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast."

GEORGE HERBERT.

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Imperfection of Human Sympathy.

HY should we faint and

to live alone,

Since all alone, so heaven has willed, we die; Nor e'en the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?

WHY

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,

Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart; Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow,

Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.

And well it is for us our God should feel

Alone our secret throbbings; so our prayer May readier spring to heaven, nor spend its zeal On cloud-born idols of this lower air.

For if one heart in perfect sympathy

Beat with another, answering love for love, Weak mortals all entranced on earth would lie, Nor listen for those purer strains above.

Or what if Heaven for once its searching light
Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all
The rude bad thoughts that in our bosoms night
Wander at large, nor heed love's gentle thrall?

Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place?
As if, fond leaning where her infant slept,
A mother's arm a serpent should embrace;

So might we friendless live, and die unwept.

Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn,

Thou who canst love us, though thou read us true;

As on the bosom of the aërial lawn

Melts in dim haze each coarse, ungentle hue.

WE ARE GROWING OLD.

Thou know'st our bitterness—our joys are thine—
No stranger thou to all our wanderings wild :
Nor could we bear to think how every line

Of us, thy darkened likeness and defiled,

Stands in full sunshine of thy piercing eye,

But that thou call'st us brethren; sweet repose Is in that word-The Lord who dwells on high Knows all, yet loves us better than he knows. JOHN KEBLE.

We are Growing Old.

E are growing old-how the thought will rise
When a glance is backward cast

WE

On some long-remembered spot that lies

In the silence of the past!

It may be the shrine of our early vows,
Or the tomb of early tears;

But it seems like a far-off isle to us,
In the stormy sea of years.

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O, wide and wild are the waves that part
Our steps from its greenness now;
And we miss the joy of many a heart,
And the light of many a brow.
For deep o'er many a stately bark
Have the whelming billows rolled,
That steered with us from that early mark—
O, friends, we are growing old,—

Old in the dimness and the dust
Of our daily toils and cares;
Old in the wrecks of love and trust,
Which our burdened memory bears.