ZEAL. Live to do good; but not with thought to win From man return of any kindness done; Remember Him who died on cross for sin,

The merciful, the meek, rejected One: When He was slain for crime of doing good, Canst thou expect return of gratitude?

Do good to all; but while thou servest best, And at thy greatest cost, nerve thee to bear, When thine own heart with anguish is opprest,

The cruel taunt, the cold averted air, From lips which thou hast taught in hope to pray,

And eyes whose sorrows thou hast wiped away.

Still do thou good; but for His holy sake

Who died for thine; fixing thy purpose ever High as His throne no wrath of man can shake: So shall He own thy generous endeavour, And take thee to His conqueror's glory up, When thou hast shared the Saviour's bitter cup. Do naught but good; for such the noble strife Of virtue is, 'gainst wrong to venture love, And for thy foe devote a brother's life,

Content to wait the recompense above; Brave for the truth, to fiercest insult meek, In mercy strong, in vengeance only weak. DR. GEORGE W. BETHUNE:

Live to Do Good.

No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest
Till half mankind were like himself possess'd.
COWPER.

The hand that slew till it could slay no more
Was glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore;
Their king, as justly seated on his throne
As e'er imperial Philip on his own,
Died by the sentence of a shaven priest
For scorning what he taught them to detest.
COWPER.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fettergall'd,

Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain! Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the

ear

Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold caution pause,

And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe, By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth, and all the bless'd above.

COWPER: To William Wilberforce, Esq., 1792.

And now, philanthropy! thy rays divine
Dart round the globe, from Zembla to the line;
O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light,
Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night;
From realm to realm, with cross or crescent
crown'd,

Where'er mankind and misery are found,
O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of

snow,

Thy Howard journeying seeks the house of woe.
Down many a winding step to dungeons dank,
Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank;
To caves bestrew'd with many a mouldering
bone,

And cells whose echoes only learn to groan;
Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclose,
No sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows,
He treads, unemulous of fame or wealth,
Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health.

ERASMUS DARWIN:
Philanthropy of Mr. Howard.

Nothing but the name of zeal appears 'Twixt our best actions and the worst of theirs. SIR J. DENHAM.

All the rich mines of learning ransack'd are
To furnish ammunition for this war;
Uncharitable zeal our reason whets,
And double edges on our passion sets.

SIR J. DENHAM.

For zeal like hers, her servants were to show, She was the first, where need required to go; Herself the foundress and attendant too.

DRYDEN.

Shame of change, and fear of future ill; And zeal, the blind conductor of the will.

DRYDEN.

Compute the gains of his ungovern'd zeal: Ill suits his cloth the praise of railing well. DRYDEN.

Distemper'd zeal, sedition, canker'd hate,
No more shall vex the church and tear the state.
DRYDEN.

A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed, Of the true old enthusiastic breed; 'Gainst form and order they their power employ,

Nothing to build, and all things to destroy.

DRYDEN.

Farewell to earth; my life of sense is o'er,
My heart is changed, I feel my bonds untied;
And, casting every thought impure aside,
My guilty course abandon and deplore.
Fallacious leaders I obey no more;

I follow thee, refuse all other guide:
And ne'er did shipwreck'd bark with broken
side

Loose from the shelves more anxious for a shore. And since I spent with risk of mortal harm

My life and dearest hours, nor gather'd thence Profit or fruit, I crowd my sail to thee. Lord, I am turn'd! now let thy gracious arm Sustain me; and my future service be With zeal proportion'd to my past offence. From the Italian of GABRIEL FIAMMA.

In his duty prompt at ev'ry call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all:

And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to
raise,

And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
GOLDSMITH: Deserted Village.

Sow with a generous hand,

Pause not for toil or pain,
Weary not through the heat of summer,
Weary not through the cold spring rain;
But wait till the autumn comes

For the sheaves of golden grain.

Scatter the seed, and fear not;

A table will be spread; What matter if you are too weary To eat your hard-earn'd bread: Sow while the earth is broken, For the hungry must be fed.

Sow, while the seeds are lying

In the warm earth's bosom deep,

And your warm tears fall upon it,—
They will stir in their quiet sleep,
And the green blades rise the quicker,
Perchance, for the tears you weep.

Then sow, for the hours are fleeting,
And the seed must fall to-day;
And care not what hands shall reap it,
Or if you shall have pass'd away
Before the waving corn-fields

Shall gladden the sunny day.
Sow, and look onward, upward,

Where the starry light appears,—
Where, in spite of the coward's doubting,
Or your own heart's trembling fears,
You shall reap in joy the harvest

You have sown to-day in tears.
Household Words: "Sowing and Reaping."

And many a lowly friend have I,

Or sick or sad of heart,

Who hails my coming steps with joy,
And sighs when I depart.

No day is ever long; and night
Some gentle spirit brings,
To whisper thoughts of other worlds
And of diviner things.

And if, when evening shadows fall,
I sad or lonely feel,

I kneel me down in that same room
Where we four used to kneel.
And there I say the evening prayer
We four were wont to say:
The very place hath power to charm
All gloomier thoughts away.

I have a thousand memories dear,
And quiet joys untold;

For God but takes his gifts away,
To give them back tenfold.
Household Words: "Springs in the Desert."

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a

prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white.

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath

ta'en,

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.

loudest point of war,

SHAKSPEARE.

of Navarre!

LORD MACAULAY: Battle of Ivry.

Zeal and duty are not slow,

But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.

MILTON.

So shall they build me altars in their zeal, Where knaves shall minister and fools shall kneel;

Where faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell
Written in blood, and bigotry may swell
The sail he spreads for heaven with blasts from

hell.

MOORE: Lalla Rookh: Veiled Prophet.

Zeal is that pure and heavenly flame
The fire of love supplies;

While that which often bears the name
Is self in a disguise.

True zeal is merciful and mild,

Can pity and forbear;

The false is headstrong, fierce, and wild,
And breathes revenge and war.

While zeal for truth the Christian warms,
He knows the worth of peace;
But self contends for names and forms,
Its party to increase.

Zeal has attain'd its highest aim,

Its end is satisfied,

If sinners love the Saviour's name;

Nor seeks it aught beside.

JOHN NEWTON.

Rise! for the day is passing,
And you lie dreaming on;
The others have buckled their armour,
And forth to the fight have gone:

A place in the ranks awaits you,

Each man has some part to play; The Past and the Future are looking In the face of the stern To-day.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

Tell zeal it lacks devotion.

SIR W. RALEIGH.

And, mourner, He calleth to thee: Come out of the valley of sorrow,

Look up to the hill-tops, and see How the fields of the harvest are whitening, How golden and full is the grain : Oh, what are thy wants to the summons? And what are thy griefs and thy pain?

The Master hath need of the reapers,

And, idler, He calleth to thee; Come out of the mansions of pleasure,

From the halls where the careless may be. Soon the shadows of eve will be falling, With the mists, and the dews, and the rain: Oh, what are thy rests and thy follies

To the world and the rusts of the grain?

The Master hath need of the reapers,

And, worker, He calleth to thee: Oh, what are the dreams of ambition

To the joys that hereafter shall be? There are tokens of storms that are coming, And Summer is fast on the wane; Then alas for the hopes of the harvest! Then alas for the beautiful grain!

The Master hath need of the reapers,

And He calleth to thee and to me;
Oh, haste, while the winds of the morning
Are blowing so freshly and free;
Let the sound of the scythe and the sickle
Re-echo o'er hill-top and plain,

And gather the sheaves in the garner,
For golden and ripe is the grain.

By the wounds of that blessed One calling,
Our Maker, Redeemer, and God;
By the deeds of these reapers now falling,—
Of those who sleep under the sod;
Who, counting their lives as but nothing,
Press'd on in the ranks of the host;
Who toil'd in the field of the Master,
And, dying, fell dead at their post.

Oh, think of the crowns they are wearing,
Resplendent with jewels of light;
Oh, think of the palms they are bearing,

As they walk with the angels in white;

Of the beautiful songs they are singing,
Of the shouts that will thrill you above.
MRS. ARCHBISHOP THOMSON :

The Master Hath Need.

By these, and the joys that are given,
While toiling and weeping below,
Of pointing one sinner to heaven,

Oh, list to the summons, and go

To the fields where the harvests are whitening,
For the Summer is fast on the wane,
And gather the sheaves in the garner,
For golden and ripe is the grain.

MRS. ARCHBISHOP THOMSON:

The Master Hath Need.

It was a worthy edifying sight,
And gives to human-kind peculiar grace,
To see kind hands attending day and night,
With tender ministry, from place to place.
Some prop the head; some from the pallid face
Wipe off the faint cold dews weak nature
sheds;

Some reach the healing draught: the whilst, to chase

The fear supreme, around their soften'd heads Some holy man by prayer all-opening Heaven dispreads.

THOMSON: Castle of Indolence. Say, does your Christian purpose still proceed T'assist in every shape the wretches' need? To free the prisoner from his anxious jail, When friends forsake him, and relations fail? Or yet with nobler charity conspire To snatch the guilty from eternal fire? Has

your small squadron firm in trial stood, Without preciseness, singularly good? Safe march they on 'twixt dangerous extremes Of mad profaneness and enthusiast dreams? REV. SAMUEL WESLEY,-to Charles Wesley, or the Methodists at Oxford, 1729.

Press bravely onward!-not in vain

Your generous trust in human kind; The good which bloodshed could not gain, Your peaceful zeal shall find.

WHITTIER.

Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind,
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined.
Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to
bind

To this thy purpose,-to begin, pursue,

With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely

kind;

Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. CARLOS WILCOX: Cure for Melancholy, Rouse to some work of high and holy love,

And thou an angel's happiness shalt know; Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;

The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider

grow;

The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours,

Thy hands, unsparing and unwearied, sow, Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers.

CARLOS WILCOX: Cure for Melancholy.

As thou these ashes, little brook! wilt bear
Into the Avon, Avon to the tide

Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas,
Into main ocean they, this deed accursed
An emblem yields to friends and enemies,
How the bold Teacher's doctrine, sanctified
By truth, shall spread, throughout the world
dispersed.

WORDSWORTH:

Eccles. Sonnets: To Wickliffe.