To something purer and more exquisite

Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek,
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek,
Thee with the welcome snowdrop I compare;
That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation toward the genial prime;
Or with the moon conquering earth's misty air,
And filling more and more with crystal light
As pensive evening deepens into night.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE HARVEST MOON.

HOW peacefully the broad and golden moon
Comes up to gaze upon the reapers' toil!

That they who own the land for many a mile
May bless her beams, and they who take the boon
Of scattered ears; Oh! beautiful! how soon
The dusk is turned to silver without soil,

Which makes the fair sheaves fairer than at noon,
And guides the gleaner to his slender spoil;
So, to our souls, the Lord of love and might
Sends harvest-hours, when daylight disappears ;
When age and sorrow, like a coming night,
Darken our field of work with doubts and fears,
He times the presence of His heavenly light
To rise up softly o'er our silver hairs.

CHARLES TURNER.

Ho

ORION.

OW oft I've watched thee from the garden croft, In silence, when the busy day was done, Shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft, And flickering like a casement 'gainst the sun : I've seen thee soar from out some snowy cloud, Which held the frozen breath of land and sea, Yet broke and severed as the wind grew loud. But earth-bound winds could not dismember thee, Nor shake thy frame of jewels; I have guessed At thy strange shape and function, haply felt The charm of that old myth about thy belt And sword; but, most, my spirit was possest By His great presence, Who is never far From His light-bearers, whether man or star.

CHARLES TURNER.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

CXIX.

AD Hesper o'er the buried sun,

SAD

And ready, thou, to die with him,
Thou watchest all things ever dim
And dimmer, and a glory done;

The team is loosened from the wain,
The boat is drawn upon the shore;
Thou listenest to the closing door,
And life is darkened in the brain.

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night,
By thee the world's great work is heard
Beginning, and the wakeful bird;
Behind thee comes the greater light :

The market-boat is on the stream,
And voices hail it from the brink;
Thou hear'st the village hammer clink,
And seest the moving of the team.

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name
For what is one, the first, the last,
Thou, like my present and my past,
Thy place is charged, thou art the same.

NIGHT.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE

HE sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,

Sits and smiles on the night.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

MORNING AND EVENING.

A MORNING PRAYER.

THE golden morn flames up the eastern sky,

And what dark night had hidden from every eye All-piercing daylight summons clear to view : And all the forests, vale or plain or hill, That slept in mist enshrouded, dark and still, In gladsome light are glittering now anew.

Shine in my heart, and bring me joy and light,
Sun of my darkened soul, dispel its night,
And shed in it the truthful day abroad;
And all the many gloomy folds lay bare
Within this heart, that fain would learn to wear
The pure and glorious likeness of its Lord.

Glad with Thy light, and glowing with Thy love,
So let me ever speak and think and move

As fits a soul new-touched with life from Heaven, That seeks but so to order all her course

As most to show the glory of that Source

By whom her strength, her hope, her life are given.

I ask not take away this weight of care;
No, for that love I pray that all can bear,

And for the faith that whatsoe'er befall
Must needs be good, and for my profit prove,
Since from my Father's heart most rich in love,
And from His bounteous hands it cometh all.

I ask not that my course be calm and still;
No, here too, Lord, be done Thy holy will;
I ask but for a quiet childlike heart;
Though thronging cares and restless toil be mine,
Yet may my heart remain forever Thine,
Draw it from earth, and fix it where Thou art.

I ask Thee not to finish soon the strife,
The toil, the trouble of this earthly life;

No, be my peace amid its grief and pain ;

I pray not, grant me now Thy realm on high;
No, ere I die let me to evil die,

And through Thy cross my sins be wholly slain.

True Morning Sun of all my life, I pray
That not in vain Thou shine on me to-day,

Be Thou my light, when all around is gloom;
Thy brightness, hope, and courage on me shed,
That I may joy to see when life is fled

The setting sun that brings the pilgrim home.

C. J. P. SPITTA.