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TO THE BLUE GENTIAN ON A HIGH ALP, ETC.


TO THE BLUE GENTIAN ON A HIGH ALP.

BY RICHARD GLOVER, M.A.

I.

Sweet eye, so blue,
So soft, so true!
Thou lookest at me lovingly,
As if to say
This toilsome day,
"Cheer up, O traveller, on thy way!"

II.

Blue eye, so clear,
Methinks thy tear
Wells up towards me tenderly
As down I bend;
And straight doth send
Message — "E'en here thou hast a friend!"

III.

Blue eye, so bright,
With heaven's own light
Mellowed, but beaming cheerily,
Evangelist!
Thou say'st, I wist,
"He cares who made: put trust in Christ!"

IV.

Blue eye, so warm
Midst cold and storm,
I hear thy silent homily —
"Adversity
May compass thee;
His love is constant who loves me!"

V.

Sweet mountain flower,
In trouble's hour,
When I perhaps may wearily
Lie lone and drear
And needing cheer,
I'll think of all thou hast said here.

Sunday Magazine.




PATIENCE.

Were there no night we could not read the stars,
The heavens would turn into a blinding glare;
Freedom is best seen through the prison bars,
And rough seas make the haven passing fair.

We cannot measure joys but by their loss;
When blessings fade away, we see them then;
Our richest clusters grow around the cross,
And in the night-time angels sing to men.

The seed must first lie buried deep in earth,
Before the lily opens to the sky;
So "light is sown," and gladness has its birth
In the dark deeps where we can only cry.

"Life out of death" is heaven's unwritten law;
Nay, it is written in a myriad forms;
The victor's palm grows on the fields of war,
And strength and beauty are the fruit of storms.

Come then, my soul, be brave to do and bear;
Thy life is bruised that it may be more sweet;
The cross will soon be left, the crown we'll wear —
Nay, we will cast it at our Saviour's feet.

And up among the glories never told,
Sweeter than music of the marriage bell,
Our hands will strike the vibrant harp of gold
To the glad song, "He doeth all things well."

Sunday Magazine.Henry Burton.




SUNSHINE.

Arise and shine! The gold light
Fair morning makes for thee —
A tender and untold light,
Like music on the sea.

Light and music shining
In melodious glory,
A rare and radiant shining
On thy changing story.

To-day the golden sunlight
Is full and broad and strong.
The glory of the One Light
Must overflow in song —

Song that floweth ever,
Sweeter every day;
Song whose echoes never,
Never die away.

How shall the light be clearer
That is so bright to-day?
How shall the hope be dearer
That pours such joyous ray?

We are only waiting
For the answer golden;
What faith is antedating
Shall not be withholden.

Frances Ridley Havergal.
Sunday Magazine.




NEAR SHORE.

Earth is our little island home,
And Heaven the neighboring continent,
Whence winds to every inlet come,
With balmiest scent.

And tenderest whispers thence we hear
From those who lately sailed across;
They love us still; since Heaven is near,
Death is not loss.

From mountain slopes of breeze and balm,
What melodies arrest the oar;
What memories ripple through the calm!
We'll keep near shore.

Transcript.