Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 140.pdf/203

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"And they heard the voice of the Lord in the cool of
the day."

At morn each day God's angel wakes,
Kindles his lamp in heaven;
And its rays he flings
On both serfs and kings:
So his call to labor is given.

His lamp goes out; he lieth down,
And bids men follow him now,
From the warehoused street,
From the fishers' fleet,
From the plain and the mountain brow.

And though the voice be soft and low,
As soundless as the dew,
'Tis the Friend above,
'Tis his call of love
Who through rest maketh all things new.

Then heed it well, and quiet be;
Follow this lead of heaven,
And in kindly shade
That thy God hath made,
Take the rest to weariness given.

Sunday Magazine.B. W. G.


When the pale wreath is laid upon the tomb,
Love's last fond homage offered to the dead,
And the bereft, with tears and drooping head,
Bid mute farewell on sadly turning home,
Sister and brother, widowed love and friend,
Review, as in a solemn vision then,
Their dear one's life, its bliss and bitter pain,
Its restless hopes now ever at an end.
The common thought lifts them above despair,
One brief thanksgiving is on every tongue:
That faithful heart shall never more be wrung
With cold unkindness or with aching care;
That generous mind no stern rebuffs shall vex;
That busy brain no problems dire perplex.

Sunday Magazine.M. Betham-Edwards.

"My soul cleaveth to the dust; quicken thou me,
according to thy word."

My soul fast cleaveth to the dust;
My heart within is dead and cold;
I'm blown about by every gust;
No certain anchorage I hold.
I fain would lift mine eyes on high,
But, all unpurged, they cannot see;
I feel like one about to die, —
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!

My life is like the untilled land,
On which no flower or fruitage grows;
'Tis like a waste of arid sand,
A wintry landscape clothed with snows.
All empty are the vanished years;
Shall like the past the future be?
'Gainst this I plead with prayers and tears,
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!

My life is like to plants that creep,
Like plants that droop and touch the ground;
No seed I sow, no harvest reap,
All barren as the months go round.
Uproot me then, and plant again;
I would be fruitful unto thee;
Prune, cleanse me, Lord, I'll scorn the pain:
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!

Sunday Magazine.Canon Bell, D.D..

It was not in the blooming May,
It was not in the dimply spring,
But deep in the leaden gray
Of the new year's bitterest day,
That a sweet little bird that had lost her way,
A tiny feathery thing,
Lightly perched on my heart's bare spray,
(Poor little bird, she had lost her way!)
And folded her downy wing,
And chirruped and sung on my heart's bare spray,
Folding her soft wee wing.

Sitting alone and apart
Her notes rang clear and keen,
And lo! with a strange sweet start,
An exquisite shuddering smart,
Each unborn bud in my frozen heart,
Pent in its deeps unseen,
Flashed to the light, a quivering dart,
(Each yearning bud in my frozen heart,)
And thrilled into poignant green;
And now she nests in my leafy heart,
Embowered in the shadowy green.

Good Words.F. Langbridge.


Smile farewell to Sorrow:
Give to Joy good-morrow:
And charge him to continue
A quiet reign within you.
Smile farewell to Gladness:
Take the hand of Sadness,
And wistfully beseech her
To be your tender teacher.
So shall both befriend you,
And to the grave attend you;
There Sorrow from you sever:
Joy go with you ever.

The Author of "Songs of Killarney."