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Then with a ripple and a radiance through me Rise and be manifest, O Morning Star! Flow on my soul, thou Spirit, and renew me, Fill with thyself, and let the rest be far.

Safe to the hidden house of thine abiding

Carry the weak knees and the heart that faints; Shield from the scorn and cover from the chiding; Give the world joy, but patience to the saints. Saints, did I say? with your remembered faces, Dear men and women, whom I sought and slew! Ah, when we mingle in the heavenly places, How will I weep to Stephen and to you!

O for the strain that rang to our reviling

Still, when the bruised limbs sank upon the sod; O for the eyes that looked their last in smiling, Last on this world here, but their first on God!

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O, could I tell, ye surely would believe it!
O, could I only say what I have seen!
How should I tell or how can ye receive it,

How, till He bringeth you where I have been?
Therefore, O Lord, I will not fail or falter;
Nay, but I ask it, nay, but I desire;
Lay on my lips thine embers of the altar,
Seal with the sting and furnish with the fire
Give me a voice, a cry and a complaining,
O, let my sound be stormy in their ears!
Throat that would shout but cannot stay for
straining,

;

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Surely he cometh, and a thousand voices

Shout to the saints and to the deaf are dumb; Surely he cometh, and the earth rejoices,

Glad in his coming who hath sworn, I come. This hath he done, and shall we not adore him? This shall he do, and can we still despair? Come, let us quickly fling ourselves before him, Cast at his feet the burden of our care,

Flash from our eyes the glow of our thanksgiving,
Glad and regretful, confident and calm;
Then through all life and what is after living
Thrill to the tireless music of a psalm.

Yea, through life, death, through sorrow and Despised with Jesus, sorrowful and lonely,

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And he will come in his own time and power
To set his earnest-hearted children free:
Watch only through this dark and painful hour,

THY night is dark; behold, the shade was deeper And the bright morning yet will break for thee.

In the old garden of Gethsemane,

When that calm voice awoke the weary sleeper: "Couldst thou not watch one hour alone with me?"

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ANONYMOUS.

"I cry unto Thee daily."- Ps. lxxxvi. 3

O, EVER from the deeps

Within my soul, oft as I muse alone,

Comes forth a voice that pleads in tender tone; As when one long unblest

Sighs ever after rest;

Or as the wind perpetual murmuring keeps.

I hear it when the day

Fades o'er the hills, or 'cross the shimmering sea;
In the soft twilight, as is wont to be,
Without
my wish or will,

While all is hushed and still,

Like a sad, plaintive cry heard far away.

Not even the noisy crowd,

That like some mighty torrent rushing down
Sweeps clamoring on, this cry of want can drown ;
But ever in my heart
Afresh the echoes start;

I hear them still amidst the tumult loud.

The sense of many a need returns again ;
Each waking morn anew
I feel myself a child, helpless as when

I watched my mother's eye,

As the slow hours went by,

And from her glance my being took its hue.

I cannot shape my way

Where nameless perils ever may betide,
Some mighty hand I crave,
O'er slippery steeps whereon my feet may slide;

To hold and help and save,

And guide me ever when my steps would stray.
There is but One, I know,

That all my hourly, endless wants can meet ;
Can shield from harm, recall my wandering feet;
My God, thy hand can feed
And day by day can lead
Where the sweet streams of peace and safety flow.

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Tears, idle tears

I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart & gather to the eyes

In looking

And thinking

on the happy Autumn ficlits,

on

The days

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They

turned to the Earth, but she frowns

they

on her child;

turned to the Sea, and he smiled as of old: Sweeten was the peril of the breakers white and wild, Sweeter than the land, with its bondage and gold!

Bayard Taylor,

POEMS OF NATURE.

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To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and, in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I
still

A lover of the meadows, and the woods,
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

NATURE.

THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call;
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them, both great and small.
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given; |
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as Adam was before;
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

TINTERN ABBEY.

JONES VERY.

I HAVE learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,

Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power

CORRESPONDENCES.

HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS.

ALL things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that reads them;

Nothing exists upon earth but for unspeakable

ends;

Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the spirit;

Nature is but a scroll; God's handwriting

thereon.

Ages ago, when man was pure, ere the flood overwhelmed him,

While in the image of God every soul yet lived, Everything stood as a letter or word of a language

familiar,

Telling of truths which now only the angels can read.

Lost to man was the key of those sacred hiero

glyphics,

Stolen away by sin, till Heaven restored it; Now with infinite pains we here and there spell out a letter,

Here and there will the sense feebly shine through the dark.

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