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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
H UES of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible,
Around his path are taught to swell;—
Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing;—
Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled stream
Pay, for soft rains in season given,
Their tribute to the genial heaven;—
Why waste your treasures of delight
Upon our thankless, joyless sight,
Who, day by day, to sin awake,
Seldom of heaven and you partake?
Oh! timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!
New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove:
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
New mercies, each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray;
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.
If on our daily course our mind
Be set, to hallow all we find,
New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.
Old f i d ld ill l li b
Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,
As more of heaven in each we see:
Some softening gleam of love and prayer
Shall dawn on every cross and care.
As for some dear familiar strain
Untired we ask, and ask again.
Ever, in its melodious store,
Finding a spell unheard before.
Such is the bliss of souls serene,
When they have sworn and steadfast mean,
Counting the cost, in all to espy
Their God, in all themselves deny.
O could we learn that sacrifice,
What lights would all around us rise!
How would our hearts with wisdom talk
Along life's dullest, dreariest walk!
We need not bid, for cloister'd cell,
Our neighbor and our work farewell,
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high
For sinful man beneath the sky:
The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us, daily, nearer God.
Seek we no more; content with these,
Let present rapture, comfort, ease,
As heaven shall bid them, come and go:—
The secret this of rest below.
Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love
Fit us for perfect rest above;
And help us, this and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.
—John Keble.
 DIVINE ORDER.

'T IS first the true and then the beautiful,—

Not first the beautiful and then the true;
First the wild moor, with rock and reed and pool,
Then the gay garden, rich in scent and hue.
'Tis first the good and then the beautiful,—
Not first the beautiful and then the good;
First the rough seed, sown in the rougher soil,
Then the flower-blossom, or the branching wood.
Not first the glad and then the sorrowful,—
But first the sorrowful, and then the glad;
Tears for a day,—for earth of tears is full,
Then we forget that we were ever sad.
Not first the bright, and after that the dark,—
But first the dark, and after that the bright;
First the thick cloud, and then the rainbow's arc,
First the dark grave, then resurrection-light.
'Tis first the night,—stern night of storm and war,—
Long nights of heavy clouds and veiled skies;
Then the far sparkle of the Morning-star,
That bids the saints awake and dawn arise.
—Horatius Bonar.
THE ISSUES OF LIFE AND DEATH.

O H, where shall rest be found—

Rest for the weary soul?
'Twere vain the ocean depths to sound,
Or pierce to either pole.
The world can never give
The bliss for which we sigh:
'Tis not the whole of life to live,
Nor all of death to die.
Beyond this vale of tears
There is a life above,
Unmeasured by the flight of years;
And all that life is love.
There is a death whose pang
Outlasts the fleeting breath:
Oh, what eternal horrors hang
Around the second death!
Lord God of truth and grace,
Teach us that death to shun,
Lest we be banished from Thy face,
And evermore undone.
Here would we end our quest;
Alone are found in Thee,
The life of perfect love,—the rest
Of immortality.
—James Montgomery.
G RACIOUS Spirit, Love divine!
Let Thy light within me shine;
All my guilty fears remove,
Fill me full of heaven and love.
Speak Thy pardoning grace to me,
Set the burdened sinner free;
Lead me to the Lamb of God,
Wash me in His precious blood.
Life and peace to me impart,
Seal salvation on my heart;
Breathe Thyself into my breast,—
Earnest of immortal rest.
Let me never from Thee stray,
Keep me in the narrow way;
Fill my soul with love divine,
Keep me, Lord, forever Thine.
—Stocker.
ST. AGNES' EVE.
D EEP on the convent roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:
My breath to heaven like vapor goes:
May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord:
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soil'd and dark,
To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Thro' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, Thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;
The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,
And strews her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates
Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,
One sabbath deep and wide—
A light upon the shining sea—
A light upon the shining sea
The Bridegroom with His bride!
—Alfred Tennyson.
 LIFE AND DEATH.

"W HAT is Life, father?"

"A Battle, my child,
Where the strongest lance may fail,
Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail.
Where the foes are gathered on every hand,
And rest not day or night,
And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight."
"What is Death, father?"
"The rest, my child,
When the strife and toil are o'er;
The angel of God, who, calm and mild,
Says we need fight no more;
Who, driving away the demon band,
Bids the din of the battle cease;
Takes banner and spear from our failing hand,
And proclaims an eternal peace."
"Let me die, father! I tremble, and fear
To yield in that terrible strife!"
"The crown must be won for Heaven, dear,
In the battle-field of life;
My child, though thy foes are strong and tried,
He loveth the weak and small;
The angels of heaven are on thy side,
And God is over all!"
—Adelaide Procter.
THE ANGEL'S CALL.
C OME to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away,
The sounds of weeping cease.
Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air!
Come to the bright and blest
And crown'd for ever!—'midst that shining band,
Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!
Thou hast been long alone:
Come to thy mother!—on the sabbath shore,
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.
In silence wert thou left!
Come to thy sisters!—joyously again
All the home voices, blest in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long-bereft.
Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy father!—it is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode
Change finds no pathway, mem'ry no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory—death by love no place!
Come, Spirit! to thy God!
—Mrs. Hemans.
I WOULD not live alway: I ask not to stay,
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here
Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.
I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without and corruption within:
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears.
I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb;
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom;
There sweet be my rest, till He bid me arise
To hail Him in triumph descending the skies.
Who, who would live alway, away from his God!
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns.
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.
—Muhlenberg.
J ERUSALEM the golden,
With milk and honey blest,
Beneath thy contemplation
Sink heart and voice oppressed.
I know not, oh, I know not
What joys await us there,
What radiancy of glory,
What bliss beyond compare.
They stand, those halls of Sion,
All jubilant with song,
And bright with many an Angel,
And all the Martyr throng;
The Prince is ever in them,
The daylight is serene;
The pastures of the blessed
Are decked in glorious sheen.
There is the throne of David;
And there, from care released,
The shout of them that triumph,
The song of them that feast;
And they, who with their Leader
Have conquered in the fight,
For ever and for ever
Are clad in robes of white.
O sweet and blessed country,
The home of God's elect;
O sweet and blessed country
That eager hearts expect;
Jesu, in mercy bring us
To that dear land of rest;
Who art, with God the Father
And Spirit, ever Blest.
—Bernard.
W HEN our heads are bowed with woe,
When our bitter tears o'erflow,
When we mourn the lost, the dear,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn,
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne,
Thou hast shed the human tear:
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
When the solemn death-bell tolls
For our own departing souls,
When our final doom is near,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
Thou hast bowed the dying head,
Thou the blood of life hast shed,
Thou hast filled a mortal bier:
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
When the heart is sad within
With the thought of all its sin,
When the spirit shrinks with fear,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
Thou, the same, the grief hast known;
Though the sins were not Thine own,
Thou hast deigned their load to bear:
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
—Heber.
O SOUL, soul, thou art passing,
Just now, the border lands:
Soul, soul, thy God is calling
Thee, from the border lands.
Soul, soul, what wilt thou answer,
When thou shalt stand alone,
Before thy God and Saviour,
'Midst th' glories of the throne?
How hast thou passed the border?
What course pursued below?
Of all I gave thee, warder,
Hast conquered every foe?
Soul, soul, hear Jesus calling!
He waits for thee above,
Oh! answer now, responding
In faith, and hope, and love.
—Henry C. Graves.
 THE LOOK.

T HE Saviour looked on Peter. Aye, no word—

No gesture of reproach! The heavens serene
Though heavy with armed justice, did not lean
Their thunders that way. The forsaken Lord
Looked only, on the traitor. None record
What that look was; none guess: for those who have seen
Wronged lovers loving through a death-pang keen,
Or pale-cheeked martyrs smiling to a sword,
Have missed Jehovah at the judgment call,
And Peter, from the height of blasphemy—
'I never knew this man' did quail and fall,
As knowing straight that God,—and turned free
And went out speechless from the face of all,
And filled the silence, weeping bitterly.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 THE MEANING OF THE LOOK.

I THINK that look of Christ might seem to say—

'Thou Peter! art thou then a common stone
Which I at last must break my heart upon,
For all God's charge to His high angels may
Guard my foot better? Did I yesterday
Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run
Quick to deny me 'neath the morning sun,
And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray?
The cock crows coldly.—Go and manifest
A late contrition, but no bootless fear!
For when thy final need is dreariest,
Thou shalt not be denied, as I am here,
My voice, to God and angels shall attest,
'Because I KNOW this man, let him be clear.'
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 COMFORT.

S PEAK low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet

From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low.
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so
Who art not missed by any that entreat.
Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet—
And if no precious gums my hands bestow,
Let my tears drop like amber, while I go
In reach of Thy divinest voice complete
In humanest affection—thus in sooth,
To lose the sense of losing! As a child
Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore,
Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth;
Till, sinking on her breast, love reconciled,
He sleeps the faster that he wept before.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 SUBSTITUTION.

W HEN some beloved voice that was to you

Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence against which you dare not cry,
Aches round you like a strong disease and new—
What hope? what help? what music will undo
That silence to your sense? Not friendship's sigh—
Nor reason's subtle count! Not melody
Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew—
Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,
Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress trees
To the clear moon: nor yet the spheric laws
Self-chanted,—nor the angels' sweet All hails,
Met in the smile of God. Nay, none of these.
Speak THOU, availing Christ! and fill this pause.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 TEARS.

T HANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not

More grief than ye can weep for. That is well—
That is light grieving! lighter, none befell,
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.
Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,
The mother singing; at her marriage-bell
The bride weeps; and before the oracle
Of high-famed hills, the poet has forgot
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,
Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place,
And touch but tombs,—look up! Those tears will run
Soon in long rivers down the lifted face,
And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON.

I THINK we are too ready with complaint

In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope
Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope
Of yon gray bank of sky, we might be faint
To muse upon eternity's constraint
Round our aspirant souls. But since the scope
Must widen early, is it well to droop
For a few days consumed in loss and taint?
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted,—
And, like a cheerful traveler, take the road,
Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread
Be bitter in thy inn, and thou unshod
To meet the flints?—At least it may be said,
Because the way is short, I thank Thee, God!
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 THE PROSPECT.

M ETHINKS we do as fretful children do,

Leaning their faces on the window pane
To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain,
And shut the sky and landscape from their view,
And thus, alas! since God the maker drew
A mystic separation 'twixt those twain,
The life beyond us, and our souls in pain,
We miss the prospect which we're called unto.
By grief we're fools to use. Be still and strong,
O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath,
And keep thy soul's large window pure from wrong,—
That so, as life's appointment issueth,
Thy vision may be clear to watch along
The sunset consummation-lights of death.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 CONSOLATION.

A LL are not taken! there are left behind

Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring,
And make the daylight still a happy thing,
And tender voices to make soft the wind.
But if it were not so—if I could find
No love in all the world for comforting,
Nor any path but hollowly did ring,
Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoined—
And if before these sepulchres unmoving
I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb
Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)
Crying 'Where are ye, O my loved and loving?'
I know a voice would sound, 'Daughter, I AM.
Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?'
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
 A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE.

I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile,

Child of my love! I tremble to believe
That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue
The shadow of my heart will always pass;—
A heart that, from its struggle with the world,
Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home,
And, careless of the staining dust it brings,
Asks for its idol! Strange, that flowers of earth
Are visited by every air that stirs,
And drink its sweetness only, while the child
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven,
May take a blemish from the breath of love,
And bear the blight forever.
I have wept
With gladness at the gift of this fair child!
My life is bound up in her. But, oh God!
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times
Bears its sweet burthen; and if Thou hast given
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower,
To bring it unpolluted unto Thee,
Take Thou its love, I pray thee! Give it light—
Though, following the sun, it turn from me!—
But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light
Shining about her, draw me to my child!
And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven!
—N. P. Willis.
 EVERLASTING BLESSINGS.
"I know that whatsoever God doeth it shall be forever." —Eccles. iii. 14.

O WHAT everlasting blessings God outpoureth on His own!

Ours by promise true and faithful, spoken from eternal
throne;
Ours by His eternal purpose ere the universe had place;
Ours by everlasting covenant, ours by free and royal grace.
With salvation everlasting He shall save us, He shall bless
With the largess of Messiah, everlasting righteousness;
Ours the everlasting mercy all His wondrous dealings prove;
Ours His everlasting kindness, fruit of everlasting love.
In the Lord Jehovah trusting, everlasting strength have we;
He Himself, our Sun, our Glory, everlasting Light shall be;
Everlasting life is ours, purchased by The Life laid down;
And our heads, oft bowed and weary, everlasting joy shall crown.
We shall dwell with Christ forever, when the shadows flee away,
In the everlasting glory of the everlasting day.
Unto Thee, belovèd Saviour, everlasting thanks belong,
Everlasting adoration, everlasting land and song.
—Frances Ridley Havergal.
THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD.
T HEY tell me thou art come from a far world,
Babe of my bosom! that these little arms,
Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings,
Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er—
That through these fringed lids we see the soul
Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home;
And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say,
Whispering to thee—and 'tis then I see
Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven!
And what is thy far errand, my fair child?
Why away, wandering from a home of bliss,
To find thy way through darkness home again?
Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky?
Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert,
The cherub and the angel thou may'st be,
A life's probation in this sadder world?
Art thou with memory of two things only,
Music and light, left upon earth astray,
And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven,
Look'd for with fear and trembling?
God! who gavest
Into my guiding hand this wanderer,
To lead her through a world whose darkling paths
I tread with steps so faltering—leave not me
To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone!
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on—
The angels who now visit her in dreams!
Bid them be near her pillow till in death
The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more!
And let the light and music, which the world
Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense
Hails with sweet recognition, be to her
A voice to call her upward, and a lamp
To lead her steps unto Thee!
—N. P. Willis.
GIVE ME THY HEART.
W ITHDeparted
echoing steps the worshipers
one by one;
The organ's pealing voice was stilled,
The vesper hymn was done;
The shadows fell from roof and arch,
Dim was the incensed air,
One lamp alone, with trembling ray,
Told of the Presence there!
In the dark church she knelt alone;
Her tears were falling fast;
"Help, Lord," she cried, "the shades of death
Upon my soul are cast!
Have I not shunned the path of sin,
And chosen the better part?"—
What voice came through the sacred air?—
"My child, give me thy Heart!"
"Have I not laid before Thy shrine
My wealth, O Lord?" she cried;
"Have I kept aught of gems or gold,
To minister to pride?
Have I not bade youth's joys retire,
And vain delights depart?"—
But sad and tender was the voice,—
"My child, give me thy Heart!"
"Have I not, Lord, gone day by day
Where Thy poor children dwell;
And carried help, and gold, and food?
O Lord, Thou knowest it well?
From many a house, from many a soul,
My hand bids care depart:"—
More sad, more tender was the voice,—
"My child, give me thy Heart!"
"Have I not worn my strength away
With fast and penance sore?
 p
Have I not watched and wept?" she cried;
"Did Thy dear saints do more?
Have I not gained Thy grace, O Lord,
And won in heaven my part?"—
It echoed louder in her soul,—
"My child, give me thy Heart!"
"For I have loved thee with a love
No mortal heart can show;
A love so deep, my saints in heaven
Its depths can never know;
When pierced and wounded on the cross,
Man's sin and doom were mine,
I loved Thee with undying love,
Immortal and divine!
"I loved Thee ere the skies were spread;
My soul bears all thy pains;
To gain thy love my sacred heart
In earthly shrines remains:
Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs,
Without one gift divine;
Give it my child, thy heart to me,
And it shall rest in mine!"
In awe she listened, and the shade
Passed from her soul away;
In low and trembling voice she cried,—
"Lord, help me to obey!
Break Thou the chains of earth, O Lord,
That bind and hold my heart;
Let it be Thine, and Thine alone,
Let none with Thee have part.
"Send down, O Lord, Thy sacred fire!
Consume and cleanse the sin
That lingers still within its depths;
Let heavenly love begin.
Th t d fl Th i t h k
That sacred flame Thy saints have known,
Kindle, O Lord, in me,
Thou above all the rest forever,
And all the rest in Thee."
The blessing fell upon her soul;
Her angel by her side
Knew that the hour of peace was come;
Her soul was purified:
The shadows fell from roof and arch,
Dim was the incensed air,—
But Peace went with her as she left
The sacred Presence there!
—Adelaide Procter.
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