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To heaven approached a Sufi Saint,
From groping in the darkness late,
And, tapping timidly and faint,

Besought admission at God's gate.

Said God, "Who seeks to enter here?"
""T is I, dear Friend," the Saint replied,
And trembling much with hope and fear.
"If it be thou, without abide."

Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned,
To bear the scourging of life's rods ;
But aye his heart within him yearned
To mix and lose its love in God's.

He roamed alone through weary years,
By cruel men still scorned and mocked,
Until from faith's pure fires and tears

Again he rose, and modest knocked.
Asked God, "Who now is at the door?"
"It is thyself, beloved Lord,"
Answered the Saint, in doubt no more,
But clasped and rapt in his reward.

From the Persian of DSCHellaleddin RUMI.
Translation of WILLIAM R. ALGER.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame !
Quit, O quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears

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O GOD! though sorrow be my fate,
And the world's hate

For my heart's faith pursue me,
My peace they cannot take away;
From day to day

Thou dost anew imbue me ;
Thou art not far; a little while
Thou hid'st thy face, with brighter smile
Thy father-love to show me.

Lord, not my will, but thine, be done;
If I sink down

When men to terrors leave me,
Thy father-love still warms my breast;
All's for the best;

Shall man have power to grieve me, When bliss eternal is my goal, And thou the keeper of my soul,

Who never will deceive me?

Thou art my shield, as saith the Word.
Christ Jesus, Lord,

Thou standest pitying by me,
And lookest on each grief of mine
And if 't were thine :

What, then, though foes may try me, Though thorns be in my path concealed? World, do thy worst! God is my shield! And will be ever nigh me.

Translated froin MARY, QUEEN OF HUNGARY

THE MARTYRS' HYMN.
FLUNG to the heedless winds,
Or on the waters cast,
The martyrs' ashes, watched,
Shall gathered be at last ;
And from that scattered dust,
Around us and abroad,
Shall spring a plenteous seed
Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath received

Their latest living breath;
And vain is Satan's boast
Of victory in their death;
Still, still, though dead, they speak,
And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim
To many a wakening land

The one availing name.

From the German of MARTIN LUTHER
Translation of W. J. Fox.

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WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more
bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide ;

Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his

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"Such hymns are never forgotten. They cling to us through our whole life. We carry them with us upon our journey. We sing them in the forest. The workman follows the plough with sacred songs. Children catch them, and singing only for the joy it gives them now, are yet laying up for all their life food of the sweetest joy."-HENRY WARD BEECHER.

"ROCK of ages, cleft for me,"
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung.
Fell the words unconsciously

From her girlish, gleeful tongue;

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"Rock of ages, cleft for me,"

'T was a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully;

Every word her heart did know.
Rose the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air,
Every note with sorrow stirred,
Every syllable a prayer,
"Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee."

"Rock of ages, cleft for me,"

Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly,

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim

"Let me hide myself in Thee."

Trembling though the voice and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully

Like a river in its flow;

Sung as only they can sing

Who life's thorny path have passed; Sung as only they can sing

Who behold the promised rest, — "Rock of ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in thee."

"Rock of ages, cleft for me,"
Sung above a coffin lid;
Underneath, all restfully,
All life's joys and sorrows hid.
Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul!
Nevermore from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billow's roll,

Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,

Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips

Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye still, the words would be, "Let me hide myself in Thee."

PROF. EDWARD H. RICE

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand,
Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed;
Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed.
In finding thee are all things round us found;
In losing thee are all things lost beside;
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound;
And to our eyes the vision is denied.

We wander in the country far remote,
Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell;
Or on the records of past greatness dote,
And for a buried soul the living sell;
While on our path bewildered falls the night
That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

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And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press

Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near;
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam
That now upon the water dances, now
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell ? In thine own bosom, Brother? Then as thine Guard with a reverent fear this power divine.

And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state, But temper of the soul by which we rate Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom move With noble thoughts and wake thee into love; And let each feeling in thy breast be given An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven, And springing into act, new life imparts, Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. Sin clouds the mind's clear vision; Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth. The earth is full of life; the living Hand Touched it with life; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit

Man's varied powers and raise him from the brute.

And shall the earth of higher ends be full, Earth which thou tread'st, and thy poor mind

be dull?

Wouldst

Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep?
Thon "living dead man," let thy spirit leap
Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow
Through thy soul's shut-up mansion.
thou know
Something of what is life, shake off this death ;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature 's quick, and learn to be
Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see;
Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance;
Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse ;
Love, joy, even sorrow, — yield thyself to all!
They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall.
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large the mind!
Then move in sympathy with God's great whole,
And be like man at first, a living soul.

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying;
Come, tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!

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