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STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone,-
O Thou, by whom we come to God!
Strive, Wait, and Pray.
TRIVE: yet I do not promise
The prize you dream of to-day
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,
Pray though the gift you ask for
An answer, not that you long for,
Yet strive, and wait, and pray.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
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,
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
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
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
The Gifts of God.
WHEN God at first made man,
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;
"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;
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?
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
Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place?
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—
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
On some long-remembered spot that lies
In the silence of the past!
It may be the shrine of our early vows,
But it seems like a far-off isle to us,
O, wide and wild are the waves that part
Old in the dimness and the dust