If with these we right no wrong What avails it to be strong? we strengthen not the weak, raise not the bowed again, We have lived our life in vain. To the giver shall be given— If thou wouldst walk in light Make other spirits bright; Who, seeking for himself alone, ever entered heaven? In blessing we are blest: In labor find our rest. If we bend not to the world's work, heart, and hand, and brain, We have lived our life in vain. Selfishness is utter loss; Life's most perfect joy and good Ah! how few have understood ! Only One hath proved it fully, and He died upon the cross, Taking on Himself the curse So to bless a universe. If we follow not His footsteps through the pathway straight and plain, We have lived our life in vain. MY MOTHER. HE stands upon the border land, SHE Where heaven and earth unite; Her soul projects itself beyond And dwelling in the realms that ne'er She seems already crowned a saint At three-score years and ten. Her motherhood is written o'er By patient steps, through thorny ways, Far down the valley of the past, grown, But o'er the graves the grass has Her children fill life's vacancies; She has no selfish thoughts or aims, O golden chain, that binds so close These human hearts, when riven, The shortened links but draw us up To happiness and Heaven! Three-score and ten! O failing feet When through the gateway ye have passed, Dear mother, when I think of thee And thy declining years, I have no songs to offer thee, No tribute but my tears. But though my harp to minor strains Of melody is strung, This heart of mine knows nought of time, There thou art always young. Sin of not loving Thee, Sin of not trusting Thee, Lord, I confess to Thee All I am tell I Thee, All I have been. Purge Thou my sin away, Faithful and just art Thou, Loving and kind art Thou Lord, let the cleansing blood, Pass o'er my soul. Then all is peace and light This soul within ; Thus shall I walk with Thee, The loved unseen. Leaning on Thee, my God, Guiding along the road, Nothing between. BONAR. THE BEGGAR AND THE KING. NE summer afternoon, within his palace, The liveried slaves have driven from his shed; The eyes of courtiers, too, in slumber close. The king lived o'er again his days of glory; And purchased, by ten thousand deaths, his name; He heard again the trumpet's clangor calling; He heard the shouts of foeman and of friend; And, louder than the death-groans of the falling, He heard the war-cries' ringing thunders blend; He dreamed of plundered towns and pillaged cities, Of slaughtered innocence, whose blood he'd spilt; He heard his minstrels sing their fulsome ditties, In praise of him whose soul was steeped in guilt; |