Or he deserts us at the hour

The fight is all but lost; And seems to 'leave us to ourselves

Just when we need him most.

The palace walls I almost see

Where dwells my Lord and King !
O grave, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?

ALICE CARY.

Ill masters good, good seems to change

To ill with greatest ease ; And, worst of all, the good with good

Is at cross-purposes.

HOPEFULLY WAITING.

"Blessed are they who are homesick, for they shall come at last to

their Father's house." – HEINRICH STILLING.

Ah ! God is other than we think ;

His ways are far above, Far beyond reason's height, and reached

Only by childlike love.

Workman of God! 0, lose not heart,

But learn what God is like ; And in the darkest battle-field

Thou shalt know where to strike.

Thrice blest is be to whom is given

The instinct that can tell That God is on the field when he

Is most invisible.

Not as you meant, О learned man, and good !

Do I accept thy words of truth and rest ;

God, knowing all, knows what for me is lust, And gives me what I need, not what he could,

Nor always as I would !
I shall go to the Father's house, and see

Him and the Elder Brother face to face, -
What day or hour I know not. Let me be
Steadfast in work, and earnest in the race,

Not as a homesick child who all day long

Whines at its play, and seldom speaksin song. If for a time some loved one goes away,

And leaves us our appointed work to do,

Can we to him or to ourselves be true
In mourning his departure day by day,

And so our work delay ?
Nay, if we love and honor, we shall make

The absence brief by doing well our task, Not for ourselves, but for the dear One's sake. And at his coming only of him ask

Approval of the work, which most was done,
Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One.

Blest, too, is he who can divine

Where real right doth lie, And dares to take the side that seems

Wrong to man's blindfold eye.

For right is right, since God is God;

And right the day must win ;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin !

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

A DYING HYMN. EARTH, with its dark and dreadful ills,

Recedes and fades away ; Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ;

Ye gates of death, give way!

Our Father's house, I know, is broad and grand ;

In it how many, many mansions are !

And, far beyond the light of sun or star, Four little ones of mine through that fair land

Are walking hand in hand!
Think you I love not, or that I forget

These of my loins? Still this world is fair,
And I am singing while my eyes are wet
With weeping in this balmy summer air :

Yet I'm not homesick, and the children here
Have need of me, and so my way is clear.

My soul is full of whispered song,

My blindness is my sight; The shadows that I feared so long

Are full of life and light.

The while my pulses fainter beat,

My faith doth so abound ; I feel grow firm beneath my feet

The green, immortal ground.

I would be joyful as my days go by,

Counting God's mercies to me. He who bore

Life's heaviest cross is mine forevermore, And I who wait his coming, shall not I

On his sure word rely ?
And if sometimes the way be rough and steep,

Be heavy for the grief he sends to me,
Or at my waking I would only weep,
Let me remember these are things to be,

To work his blessed will until he come
To take my hand, and lead me safely home,

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH.

That faith to me a courage gives

Low as the grave to go : I know that my Redeemer lives, —

That I shall live I know.

That nothing walks with aimless feet ;

That not one life shall be destroyed,

Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete ;

WHY THUS LONGING ? Why thus longing, thus forever sighing

For the far off, unattained, and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying,

Offers up its low perpetual hymn ? Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,

All thy restless yearnings it would still ; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching

Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

That not a worm is cloven in vain ;

That not a moth with vain desire

Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain.

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, -If no silken cord of love hath bound thee . To some little world through weal and woe ;

Behold, we know not anything ;

I can but trust that good shall fall

At last - far off — at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream : but what am I?

An infant crying in the night :

An infant crying for the light : And with no language but a cry.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE LOVE OF GOD. Thou Grace Divine, encircling all,

A soundless, shoreless sea ! Wherein at last our souls must fall,

O Love of God most free!

When over dizzy heighis we go,

One soft hand blinds our eyes, The other leads us, safe and slow,

O Love of God most wise !

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, -

No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten

By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,

Not by works that gain thee world-renown, Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the iminortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,

Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,

And truly loving, thou canst truly live. Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the Lord of light, And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,

Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright? Other hands may grasp the field and forest,

Proud proprietors in pomp may shine; But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier, --- all the world is thine. Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,

Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,

And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
Nature wears the color of the spirit ;

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.

HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL,

O YET WE TRUST THAT SOMEHOW

GOOD.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM."
O Yet we trust that somehow good

Will be the final goal of ill,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ;

LOVE DIVINE, ALL LOVE EXCELLING.

Love divine, all love excelling,

Joy of heaven to earth come down,
Fix in us thy humble dwelling,

All thy faithful mercies crown) ;