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And the straight path of thorny virtue trod;
give, And learn'd to die ere others learn to live.
The Pure in Heart shall Meet Again.
Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,
Whom death has torn asunder here;
And leave this blighted orb afar-
And soar away from star to star.
But, O! how dark, how drear, how lone
Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one,
We fail'd to find the loved of this ! If there no more the ties should twine,
Which death's cold hand alone can sever, Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
More hateful, as they shine for ever. It cannot be! each hope and fear
That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere
Than this bleak world that holds us now! There is a voice which sorrow hears,
When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers, "Dry thy tears : The pure in heart shall meet again!”
The Poor Man's Day. BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day; On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's
cold And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree: But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Turning to God. IF, gracious God, in life's green, ardent year,
A thousand times thy patient love I tried ; With reckless heart, with conscience hard and
sere, Thy gifts perverted, and thy power defied; O, grant me, now that wintry snows appear Around my brow, and youth's bright promise
hide, Grant me with reverential awe to hear Thy holy voice, and in thy word confide!
Blot from my book of life its early stain !
PIETRO BEMBO, Trans. ANON.
Thy Will be Bone !
I bow my head to thy decree;
Its upward flight, great God, to thee!
Though I must still on earth abide,
To toil, and groan, and suffer here, To seek for peace on sorrow's tide,
And meet the world's unfeeling jeer.
When heaven seemed dawning on my view
And I rejoiced my race was run,
And still I say, “Thy will be done !"
And though the world can never more
A world of sunshine be to me, Though all my fairy dreams are o’er,
And Care pursues where'er I flee;
Though friends I loved—the dearest—best,
Were scattered by the storm away, And scarce a hand I warmly pressed
As fondly presses mine to-day : Yet must I live-must live for those
Who mourn the shadow on my brow, Who feel my hand can soothe their woes,
Whose faithful hearts I gladden now. Yes, I will live-live to fulfil
The noble mission scarce begun, And pressed with grief to murmur still, All Wise! All Just! “ Thy will be done!”
ANNA CORA MOWATT.
The Hours are Viewless Angels.
That still go gliding by,
To Him who sits on high;
As one by one departs,
For ever round our hearts.
Around the idle flowers,
Those viewless angel-hours;