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Dark Death let fall a tear.

Why am I here?

Oh, heart ungrateful! Will man never know

I am his friend, nor ever was his foe? Whose the sweet season, if it be not mine ?

Mine, not the bobolink's, that song divine,

Chasing the shadows o'er the flying wheat!

'Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds So sweet.

Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming rose

But his, whose passionate heart long since lay still ?

Whose wan hope pales this snowlike lily tall,

Beside the garden wall, But his, whose radiant eyes and lily grace,

Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill?

All hope, all memory,

Have their deep springs in me;
And love, that else might fade,
By me immortal made,

Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming skies,

And burns a steadfast star to steadfast eyes.

SUSAN COOLIDGE
(SARAH WOOLSEY).

ONE LESSER JOY.

WHAT is the dearest happiness of heaven?

Ah, who shall say!

So many wonders, and so wondrous fair,

Await the soul who, just arrivèd there

In trance of safety, sheltered and forgiven,

Opens glad eyes to front the eternal day:

Relief from earth's corroding discontent,

Relief from pain,

The satisfaction of perplexing fears,

Full compensation for the long, hard years.

Full understanding of the Lord's intent,

The things that were so puzzling made quite plain:

And all astonished joy as, to the spot, From further skies,

Crowd our beloved with white winged feet,

And voices than the chiming harps more sweet,

Faces whose fairness we had half forgot,

And outstretched hands, and welcome in their eyes.

Heart cannot image forth the endless

store

We may but guess. But this one lesser joy I hold my

own:

All shall be known in heaven; at last be known

The best and worst of me; the less the more.

My own shall know-and shall not love me less.

Oh, haunting shadowy dread which underlies

All loving here!

We inly shiver as we whisper

low,

"Oh, if they knew-if they could only know,

Could see our naked souls without disguise

How they would shrink from us and pale with fear."

The bitter thoughts we hold in leash within

But do not kill;

The petty anger and the mean de

sire,

The jealousy which burns -a smouldering fire —

The slimy trail of half-unnoted sin, The sordid wish which daunts the nobler will.

Coarse, brawny hands let down the

net

When the Lord spake and ordered 80;

We fight each day with foes we dare They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet,

not name,

We fight, we fall!

Noiseless the conflict and unseen of men;

We rise, are beaten down, and rise again,

And all the time we smile, we move the same,

And even to dearest eyes draw close the veil;

But in the blessed heavens these wars are past; Disguise is o'er!

With new anointed vision, face to face,

We shall see all, and clasped in close embrace

Shall watch the haunting shadow flee at last,

And know as we are known, and fear no more.

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Just as in other days, and set

Their backs to labor, bending low;

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Thou takest the things we know so well

And buildest on them Thy miracle

The heavenly on the common-place. The lives which seem so poor, so low, The hearts which are so cramped and dull,

The baffled hopes, the impulse slow,
Thou takest, touchest all, and lo!
They blossom to the beautiful.
We need not wait for thunder-peal

Resounding from a mount of fire While round our daily paths we feel Thy sweet love and Thy power to heal Working in us Thy full desire.

INFLUENCE.

COUCHED in the rocky lap of hills
The lake's blue waters gleam,
And thence in linked and measured
rills

Down to the valley stream, To rise again, led higher and higher, | And slake the city's hot desire.

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Hark! the onset! will you fold your
Faith-clad arms in lazy lock?
Up, oh, up! for, drowsy soldier,
Worlds are charging to the shock.

Worlds are charging-heaven beholding!

You have but an hour to fight: Now, the blazoned cross unfolding, On-right onward, for the right!

What! still hug your dreamy slumbers ?

"Tis no time for idling play, Wreaths, and dance, and poet-numbers,

Flout them, we must work to-day !

Oh! let all the soul within you

For the truth's sake go abroad! Strike! let every nerve and sinew Tell on ages - tell for God!

RICHARD CRASHAW.

LINES ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT

TO MRS. R.

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Flowers of never fading graces,

Lo! here a little volume, but large To make immortal dressings,

book,

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For worthy souls whose wise embraces

Store up themselves for Him who is alone

The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's

son.

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