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386
SAINTS, ETC.


SAINTS.

I see them with their heavenward eyes.
Men who in Christ abide;
The long train ceases not to rise
Through time's unceasing tide,
And a grave across each pathway lies
But the path swerves not aside.

Like a chorus which no discords mar,
Sober and clear and grand,
Like a scroll upreaching to a star,
Caught by an angel's hand,
Like a wind beginning from afar,
And covering all the land,

They sound, they pass; each man beholds
The Master's risen face,
Each arm some near beloved enfolds,
Yet keeps its forward place,
The weak one leans, the strong upholds,
But all are in the race.

Up, through the darkness and the pain,
Up, through the joy and light,
Earth's myriad hands are raised in vain
To baffle or invite,
Life shows them nothing to detain,
Death, nothing to affright.

By all things fair their course is graced,
By all things bitter, healed;
Gathering like servants sent in haste
Who, being challenged, yield,
And through the garden on the waste,
Guide to God's happy field.

To them each human loss is gain
Withdrawn or sacrificed,
Nothing but sin was all in vain,
And that, which long enticed,
Falls from each soul and leaves no stain
At the first smile of Christ.

The flock of God goes up and on,
And if, as sin departs,
Some faces from the throng are gone
Leaving some broken hearts,
God, full of pity for his own,
Dries every tear that starts.

The flock of God is strong and swift
And it devours the way,
Longing to see the curtain lift
From the everlasting day;
How slight the toil, how vast the gift,
How weary the delay!

Lord, gather us beneath their feet
As thy good will shall be!
The service of thy saints is sweet
When they are serving thee;
Souls for inheritance unmeet
May serve eternally.

M. B. Smedley.
Good Words.




DREAMLAND.

Dreaming of kindlier, warmer suns,
Dreaming of happier hours,
We dwell in a future that never sheds
O'er our heads its living flowers;
In fancy we gather with eager glee
What fate dooms to perish in infancy.

The youth is dreaming of laurels won
On the battle-field of life,
He sees the hour of triumph near,
Nor recks of the years of strife;
Yet his flashing eye shall be sunk and dim
Ere the victor's wreath may be wove for him.

The maiden dreameth the dearest dream
The human heart may treasure,
Of a sun-lit home where faith and love
Flow forth in ceaseless measure;
Let her dream, — nor whisper the future brings
No rainbow hues on its darkening wings.

Let them dream — they will rouse at duty's call,
Eager for nobler doing,
Will catch the light on her steel-crowned helm,
And turn from fancy's wooing,
And visions of love and of fame will die
As the sunset gleam from the wintry sky.

And yet, — though the dreams of earth be fair,
God grant that a dreamless sleep
May seal the eyes that have learned too well
O'er waking thoughts to weep;
Till a morn shall break in their dazzled sight,
Crowning earth's dreams with a truer light.

Isabella M. Mortimer.
Golden Hours.




THE SONG-BIRD.

"L'oiseau posé sur des rameaux tout frêles chante
pourtant sachant qu'il a des ailes."

The song-bird singeth on the bough,
His song is never sad;
The bough is frail, the wind is high,
And yet his song is glad, —
He knoweth he hath wings.

That carol riseth higher yet
When morning turneth night to day,
And still some notes when passing clouds
Obscure the heavenly ray, —
He knoweth he hath wings.

O Thou whose voice the spirits hear,
Speak to our souls in doubt or fear,
And tell us we have wings;

Bid every dark misgiving cease,
And all be confidence and peace, —
Oh tell us we have wings.

A. M. Jeaffreson.
Golden Hours.