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SHALL I FEAR, O EARTH, THY BOSOM? 387
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah no! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow!
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone,
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise.
The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. HERBERT KNOWLES.
Shall I Fear, O Earth, thy Bosom?
HALL I fear, O earth, thy bosom?
Whence the tree, the brook, the river,
Yea, whence One arose victorious
No, fair Earth! a tender mother
"My Times are in Thy Hand."
Psalm xxxi. 15.
FATHER, I know that all my life
Is portioned out for me:
And the changes that are sure to come
I do not fear to see;
But I ask thee for a present mind
I ask thee for a thankful love,
I would not have the restless will
I would be treated as a child,
Wherever in the world I am,
I have a fellowship with hearts,
So I ask thee for the daily strength,
And a mind to blend with outward things
While keeping at thy side;
Content to fill a little space,
If thou be glorified.
A STRIP OF BLUE.
And if some things I do not ask,
I would have my spirit filled the more
More careful than to serve thee much
There are briers besetting every path,
And an earnest need for prayer;
In a service that thy love appoints
For my secret heart has learned the truth
Is a life of liberty.
A Strip of Blue.
Do not own an inch of land,
The orchard and the mowing-fields,
They bring me tithes divine-
Richer am I than he who owns
I freight them with my untold dreams,
And nobler cargoes wait for them
Than ever India knew--
My ships that sail into the East
Sometimes they seem like living shapesThe people of the sky
Guests in white raiment coming down
I call them by familiar names,
From violet mists they bloom!
All souls find sailing room.
The ocean grows a weariness
With nothing else in sight;
God's sweeping garment-fold,
THE CLOSING SCENE.
The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,
The waves are broken precious stones—
Washed from celestial basement walls
Out through the utmost gates of space,
Yet loses not her anchorage
Here sit I, as a little child:
The threshold of God's door
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ;
Glad when is opened to my need
The Closing Scene.
ITHIN the sober realms of leafless trees The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper in his hours of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.