Two eyes that look above
Through all their tears;
Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears;"

So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;
"Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these."

DINAH MARIA CRAIK.

SONNETS

FROM WITHIN AND WITHOUT."

Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door;

And pray to Him in secret: He will hear: But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear The numberless ascensions, more and more, Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before Thou comest to the Father's likeness near; And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er. Be thou content if on thy weary need

There falls a sense of showers and of the spring;

A hope, that makes it possible to fling
Sickness aside, and go and do the deed;
For highest aspiration will not lead
Unto the calm beyond all questioning.

Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense!
It is thy Duty waiting thee without.

Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt;

A hand doth pull thee

-

it is Providence:

Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence;
Go forth into the tumult and the shout;
Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about;
Of noise alone is born the inward sense
Of silence; and from action springs alone
The inward knowledge of true love and faith.
Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,
And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan;
One day upon His bosom, all thine own,
Thou shalt lie still, embraced in holy death.

And do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain
More than the father's heart rich good invent?
Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent.
We know the primrose time will come again;
Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain.
Be bounteous in thy faith, for not misspent

Is confidence unto the Father lent:

Thy need is sown and rooted for His rain.

His thoughts are as thine own; nor are His ways
Other than thine, but by their loftier sense

Of beauty infinite and love intense.

Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise,
A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays;
Nor other than thy need, thy recompense.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

THE SONG OF THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM.

'OME, brethren, let us go!

COM

The evening closeth round,

'Tis perilous to linger here

On this wild desert ground.

Come, towards eternity
Press on from strength to strength,
Nor dread your journey's toils nor length,
For good its end shall be.

We shall not rue our choice,

Though straight our path and steep,
We know that He who called us here
His word shall ever keep.

Then follow, trusting; come,

And let each set his face

Toward yonder fair and blessed place,

Intent to reach our home.

Come, children, let us go!

Our Father is our guide;

And when the way grows steep and dark,
He journeys at our side.

Our spirits He would cheer,

The sunshine of His love

Revives and helps us as we rove,

Ah, blest our lot e'en here!

Come, children, let us go!
We travel hand in hand;
Each in his brother finds his joy
In this wild stranger land.

The strong be quick to raise
The weaker when they fall;

Let love and peace and patience bloom
In ready help for all.

Friend of our perfect choice,

Thou Joy of all that live,

Being that know'st not chance or change,
What courage dost Thou give!

All beauty, Lord, we see,

All bliss and life and love,

In Him in whom we live and move,

And we are glad in Thee!

GERHARD TERSTEEGEN, 1731.

WORLDLY PLACE.

EVEN in a palace, life may be led well!

So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
And drudge under some foolish master's ken,
Who rates us, if we peer outside our pen,
Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?

Even in a palace! On his truth sincere,

Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;
And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I'll stop and say: "There were no succor here!

The aids to noble life are all within."

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

ΟΝ

QUIET WORK.

NE lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown, One lesson of two duties kept at one

Though the loud world proclaim their enmity —

Of toil unsevered from tranquillity;

Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows
Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose,
Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.

Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,
Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil,
Still do thy quiet ministers move on,

Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;
Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,
Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.