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Without thy presence, earth gives no resection ; i I'll take them first
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure ; To quench their thirst,
Where sweetness dwells
And when our bottles and all we
Are subjects far too low for my desire ; Then the blest paths we 'll travel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
Where no corrupted voices brawl ; Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares ; No conscience molten into gold,
Wislom but folly ; joy, disquiet - sadness ; No forged accuser, bought or sold,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
Of our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? Christ
Christ pleads his death, and then we live. Not having thee, what have my labors got ?
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ?
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder! And having thee alone, what have I not?
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms, – I wish nor sea nor land ; nor would I be
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of And this is mine eternal plea thee!
To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea, FRANCIS QUARLES.
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head :
Then am I, like a palmer, fit
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, My gown of glory, hope's true gauge ; Who oft doth think, must needs die well. And thus I 'll take my pilgrimage !
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
A TRUE LENT.
Blood must be my body's balmer,
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss,
Is this a fast, – to keep
The larder lean,
Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
Or ragg'd to go,
Then by that happy, blissful day,
“O) foolish boy!" the saint exclaimed, “to hope
That the broad ocean in that hole should lie !" WATER TURNED INTO WINE.
“O foolish saint !” exclaimed the boy; “thy The conscious water saw its God and blushed.
Is still more hopeless than the toil I ply, THE WIDOW'S MITES.
Who think'st to comprehend God's nature high
In the small compass of thine human wit ! Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land,
Sooner, Augustine, sooner far, shall I Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand :
4: Confine the ocean in this tiny pit, The other's wanton wealth foams high, and brave; Then
uve : Than finite minds conceive God's nature inThe other cast away, she only gave.
ANONYMOUS. “TWO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY." Two went to pray ? O, rather say,
I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT One went to brag, the other to pray;
That men might hear out of this mouth of mine One nearer to God's altar trod,
How God doth make his enemies his friends ; The other to the altar's God.
Rather than with a thundering and long prayer | Be led into presumption, or despair.
This would I be, and would none other be,
But a religious servant of my God;
And willingly to suffer mercy's rod,
Joy in his grace, and live but in his love, Long pored St. Austin o'er the sacred page,
| And seek my bliss but in the world above. And doubt and darkness overspread his mind; On God's mysterious being thought the Sage, And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer,
The Triple Person in one Godhead joined. For all estates within the state of grace,
The more he thought, the harder did he find That careful love might never know despair, To solve the various doubts which fast arose ; Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ;
And as a ship, caught by imperious wind, | And this would I both day and night devise Tosses where chance its shattered body throws, To make my humble spirit's exercise. So tossed his troubled soul, and nowhere found repose.
And I would read the rules of sacred life ;
Persuade the troubled soul to patience ; Heated and feverish, then he closed his tome, The husband care, and conifort to the wife, And went to wander by the ocean-side,
To child and servant due obedience ; Where the cool breeze at evening loved to come, Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace,
Murmuring responsive to the murmuring tide ; 1 That love might live, and quarrels all might cease.
Prayer for the health of all that are diseased, That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,
Confession unto all that are convicted, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. And patience unto all that are displeased, Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
And comfort unto all that are afflicted, The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, And mercy unto all that have offended,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
To give us only good ; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
To write a verse or two is all the praise
The womitov To us invisible, or dimly seen
That I can raise ; In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Mend my estate in any wayes,
Thou shalt have more.
I go to church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither flie ; Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in Heaven,
Or, if I mount unto the skie, On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol
I will do more. Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, Man is all weaknesse : there is no such thing If better thou belong not to the dawn,
As Prince or King : Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
His arm is short ; yet with a sling With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
He may do more. While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, A herb destilled, and drunk, may dwell next doore, Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise
On the same floore, In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
To a brave soul : Exalt the poore, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou
They can do more. fall'st. Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest, 0, raise me then ! poore bees, that work all day, With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies,
Sting my delay, And ye five other wandering fires that move
Who have a work, as well as they, In mystic dance not without song, resound
And much, much more.
Yes, to the very end.
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. Rising or falling, still advance his praise. May not the darkness hide it from my face? His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, You cannot miss that inn. Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Those who have gone before. Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds,
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
In clothes, cheap handsomenesse doth bean the
Much curiousnesse is a perpetual wooing;
THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD.
When once thy foot enters the church, be bare.
God is more there than thou ; for thou art there LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Only by his permission. Then beware. Lead thou me on!
And make thyself all reverence and fear. The night is dark, and I am far from home, – Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings ; quit Lead thou me on !
thy state ; Keep thou my feet ; I do not ask to see
All equal are within the church's gate. The distant scene, ---- one step enough for me.
Resort to sermons, but to prayers most : I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Praying 's the end of preaching. O, be drest ! Shouldst lead me on :
Stay not for th' other pin : why thou hast lost I loved to choose and see my path, but now
A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest Lead thou me on!
Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee, I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose Pride ruled my will : remember not past years.
Judge not the preacher ; for he is thy judge : So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not. Will lead me on ;
God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
| To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. The night is gone ;
The worst speak something good ; if a'! And with the morn those angel faces smile
want sense, Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
God takes a text, and preacheth Pa-ti-ence JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.