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But the sound deafens, and the light
Is stronger than our dazzled sight;
The letters of the sacred Book
Glinmer and swim beneath our look ;
Still struggles in the Age's breast
With deepening agony of quest
The old entreaty : “Art thou He,
Or look we for the Christ to be ?'

“God should be most where man is least; So, where is neither church nor priest, And never rag of form or creed To clothe the nakedness of need, -Where farmer-folk in silence meet, -I turn my bell-unsummoned feet; I lay the critic's glass aside, I tread upon my lettered pride, And, lowest-seated, testify To the oneness of humanity; Confess the universal want, And share whatever Heaven may grant. He findeth not who seeks his own, The soul is lost that's saved alone. Not on one favored forehead fell Of old the fire-tongued miracle, But flamed o'er all the thronging host The baptism of the Holy Ghost ; Heart answers heart : in one desire The blending lines of prayer aspire ;

Where, in my name, meet two or three,' Our Lord hath said, “I there will be !'

That to be saved is only this, – Salvation from our selfishness, From more than elemental fire, The soul's unsanctified desire, From sin itself, and not the pain That warns us of its chafing chain ; That worship's deeper meaning lies In mercy, and not sacrifice, Not proud humilities of sense And posturing of penitence, But love's unforced obedience ; That Book and Church and Day are given For man, not God, – for earth, not heaven, The blessed means to holiest ends, Not masters, but benignaut friends ; That the dear Christ dwells not afar, The king of some remoter star, Listening, at times, with Mattereil ear, To homage wrung from selfish fear, But here, amidst the poor and blind, The bound and suffering of our kind, In works we do, in prayers we pray, Life of our life, He lives to-day.”

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

“So sometimes comes to soul and sense The feeling which is evidence That very near about us lies The realm of spiritual mysteries. The sphere of the supernal powers Impinges on this world of ours. The low and dark horizon lifts, To light the scenic terror shifts ; The breath of a diviner air Blows down the answer of a prayer : That all our sorrow, pain, and doubt A great compassion clasps about, And law and goodness, love and force, Are wedded fast beyond divorce. Then duty leaves to love its task, The beggar Self forgets to ask ; With smile of trust and folded hands, The passive soul in waiting stands To feel, as flowers the sun and dew, The One True Life its own renew, “So, to the calmly gathered thought The innermost of truth is taught, The mystery dimly understood, That love of God is love of good, And, chiefly, its divinest trace In Him of Nazareth's holy face ;

A PRAYER FOR LIFE.
O Father, let me not die young !

Earth's beauty asks a heart and tongue To give true love and praises to her worth ;

Her sins and judgment-sufferings call For fearless martyrs to redeem thy Earth

From her disastrous fall.
For though her summer hills and vales might

seem
The fair creation of a poet's dream, -

Ay, of the Highest Foet,
Whose wordless rhythms are chanted by the

gyres

Of constellate star-choirs, That with deep melody flow and overflow it,

The sweet Earth, - very sweet, despite The rank grave-smell forever arifting in

Among the odors from her censers white Of wave-swung lilies and of wind-swung

roses, -
The Earth sad-sweet is deeply attaint with

sin!
The pure air, which encloses

Her and her starry kin,
Still shudders with the unspent palpitating
Of a great Curse, that to its utmost shore

Thrills with a deadly shiver

Which has not ceased to quiver Down all the ages, nathless the strong beating

Of Angel-wings, and the defiant roar Of Earth's Titanic thunders.

GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

Fair and sad, 1 In those hot tears to sudden vigor sprung, In sin and beauty, our beloved Earth Sheds, even now, the fruits of graver age, – Has need of all her sons to make her glad ; By the long wrestle in which inward ill

Has need of martyrs to refire the hearth | Fell like a trampled viper to the ground, Of her quenched altars, – of heroic men

By all that lifts me o'er my outward peers With Freedom's sword, or Truth's supernal pen,

To that supernal stage To shape the worn-out mould of nobleness again. Where soul dissolves the bonds by Nature And she has need of Poets who can string

bound,-
Their harps with steel to catch the light. Fall when I may, by pale disease unstrung,
ning's fire,

Or by the hand of fratricidal rage,
And pour her thunders from the clanging

I cannot now die young !
wire,
To cheer the hero, mingling with his cheer,

Arouse the laggard in the battle's rear,
Daunt the stern wicked, and from discord wring

WHEN.
Prevailing harmony, while the humblest soul

If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
Who keeps the tune the warder angels sing

That the next sun
In golden choirs above,

Which sinks should bear me past all fear and And only wears, for crown and aureole,

sorrow The glow-worm light of lowliest human love,

For any one, Shall fill with low, sweet undertones the

All the fight fought, all the short journey chasms

through, Of silence, 'twixt the booming thunder-spasms.

What should I do? And Earth has need of Prophets fiery-lipped And deep-souled, to announce the glorious I do not think that I should shrink or falter, dooms

But just go on, Writ on the silent heavens in starry script, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter And flashing fitfully from her shuddering

Aught that is gone ; tombs, —

But rise and move and love and smile and pray Commissioned Angels of the new-born Faith,

For one more day. To teach the immortality of Good, The soul's God-likeness, Sin's coeval death, | And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, And man's indissoluble Brotherhood.

Say in that ear

Which hearkens ever: “Lord, within thy keeping Yet never an age, when God has need of hini,

How should I fear?
Shall want its Man, predestined by that need, And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still,
To pour his life in fiery word or deed, -

Do thou thy will."
The strong Archangel of the Elohim !
Earth's hollow want is prophet of his coming: "me

prophet of his coming: I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender, In the low murmur of her famished cry,

My soul would lie And heavy sobs breathed up despairingly,

| All the night long ; and when the morning Ye hear the near invisible humming

splendor

Flushed o'er the sky,
Of his wide wings that fan the lurid sky
Into cool ripples of new life and hope,

I think that I could smile -- could calmly say,

“It is his day.” While far in its dissolving ether ope Deeps beyond deeps, of sapphire calm, to cheer | But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonaer With Sabbath gleams the troubled Now and Here.

Held out a scroll,

On which my life was writ, and I with wonder
Father! thy will be done !

Beheld unroll
Holy and righteous One!

To a long century's end its mystic clue,
Though the reluctant years

What should I do?
May never crown my throbbing brows with
white,

What could I do, o blessed Guide and Master, Sor round my shoulders turn the golden light

Other than this;
Of my thick locks to wisdom's royal ermine : Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
Yet by the solitary tears,

Nor fear to miss
Deeper than joy or sorrow, — by the thrill, The road, although so very long it be,
Higher than hope or terror, whose quick germin,

While led by thee ?

Step after step, feeling thee close beside me, From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath, Although unseen,

Spent with toil and o'ercome with fatigue. Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee,

And the gypsy came forth from her dwelling, and Or heavens serene,

prayed Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray,

That the pilgrims would rest them awhile ; Thy love decay.

And she offered her couch to that delicate maid,

Who had come many, many a mile. I may not know ; my God, no hand revealeth

And she fondled the babe with affection's caress, Thy counsels wise ;

And she begged the old man would repose ; Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,

“Here the stranger,” she said, “ever finds free No voice replies

access, To all my questioning thought, the time to tell ;

And the wanderer balm for his woes."
And it is well.
Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing

Then her guests from the glare of the noonday
Thy will always,

she led Through a long century's ripening fruition

To a seat in her grotto so cool;
Or a short day's ;

Where she spread them a banquet of fruits, and Thou canst not come too soon ; and I can wait

a shed, If thou come late.

With a manger, was found for the mule ;

| With the wine of the palm-tree, with dates newly SARAH WOOLSEY (Susan Coolidge).

culled,
All the toil of the day she beguiled ;

And with song in a language mysterious she lulled
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.

On her bosom the wayfaring child.
A BALLAD.

When the gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand
There's a legend that 's told of a gypsy who

Took the infant's diminutive palm, dwelt

O, 'twas fearful to see how the features she scanned In the lands where the pyramids be ;

Of the babe in his slumbers so calm ! And her robe was embroidered with stars, and

Well she noted each mark and each furrow that her belt With devices right wondrous to see ;

crossed And she lived in the days when our Lord was a

O'er the tracings of destiny's line : child

“WHENCE CAME YE?" she cried, in astonish. On his mother's immaculate breast;

ment lost, When he fled from his foes, — when to Egypt

“For This CHILD IS OF LINEAGE DIVINE!" exiled, He went down with St. Joseph the blest.

“ From the village of Nazareth,” Joseph replied,

“ Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew, This Egyptian held converse with magic, methinks, We have fled from a tyrant whose garment is And the future was given to her gaze ;

dyed For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx .

In the gore of the children he slew : On her threshold kept vigil always.

We were told to remain till an angel's command She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seen

I Should appoint us the hour to return; . In the haunts of the dissolute crowd ;

But till then we inhabit the foreigners' land, But communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs, ! And in Egypt we make our sojourn."

I ween,
Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud.

“Then ye tarry with me," cried the gypsy in joy,

And ye make of my dwelling your home ; nd there came an old man from the desert one Many years have I prayed that the Israelite boy day,

(Blessèd hope of the Gentiles !) would come.' With a maid on a mule by that road;

And she kissed both the feet of the infant and And a child on her bosom reclined, and the way I knelt, Led them straight to the gypsy's abode;

And adored him at once ; then a smile And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome Lit the face of his mother, who cheerfully dwelt path,

With her host on the banks of the Nile. From thence many, many a league, —

FRANCIS MAHONY (Father Proud)

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And, peering through the deep wood maze With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,

“Will she not come ?” she said.

But when the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,

He stepped to where she lay; And, kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, “I am a minister,

My sister ! let us pray."

Just then, the parting boughs between, A little maid's light form was seen,

All breathless with her speed ; And, following close, a man came on (A portly man to look upon),

Who led a panting steed. “Mother!" the little maiden cried, Or e'er she reached the woman's side,

And kissed her clay-cold cheek, -“I have not idled in the town, But long went wandering up and down,

The minister to seek.

And well, withouten book or stole, (God's words were printed on his soul !)

Into the dying ear He breathed, as 't were an angel's strain, The things that unto life pertain,

And death's dark shadows clear.

“They told me here, they told me there, — I think they mocked me everywhere ;

And when I found his home,
And begged him on my bended knee
To bring his book and come with me,

Mother! he would not come.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed, regenerate, --

Of God's most blest decree, That not a single soul should die Who turns repentant, with the cry

“ Be merciful to me."

“I told him how you dying lay, And could not go in peace away

Without the minister ; I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, But O, my heart was fit to break,

Mother! he would not stir.

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, Endured but for a little while

In patience, faith, and love, Sure, in God's own good time, to be Exchanged for an eternity

of happiness above.

“So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back, fast as fast could be,

To come again to you ; And here -- close by — this squire I met, Who asked (so mild) what made me fret;

And when I told him true,

Then, as the spirit ebbed away,
He raised his hands and eyes to pray

That peaceful it might pass ;
And then — the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard, and they knelt, every one,

• Close round on the green grass.

“ I will go with you, child,' he said, "God sends me to this dying bed,'

Mother, he's here, hard by." While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye.

Such was the sight their wandering eyes Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,

Who reined their coursers back, Just as they found the long astray, Who, in the heat of chase that day,

Had wandered from their track.

The bridle on his neck hung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee,

Pressed close his bonny bay ;
A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,

Than those stood there that day.

But each man reined his pawing steed, And lighted down, as if agreed,

In silence at his side; And there, uncovered all, they stood, It was a wholesome sight and good

That day for mortal pride.

So, while the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye And folded arms, and in his look Something that, like a sermon-book,

Preached, - "All is vanity."

For of the noblest of the land
Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band :

And, central in the ring,
By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,

Knelt their anointed king.

ROBERT and CAROLINE SOUTHEY

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