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No end to warfare find !" Nor seek thou, limit to discern In patient woe, in duty stern,

But learn thy Mother's mind.

She will not tire on thee to wait

In early hour or late :
To-morrow even as yesterday,
Still onward, onward in Love's way

To speed, her only dream.
So many love-deeds done, to cease
Her kindly toil, and rest in peace,

Small joy to her would seem.

And He, the Fountain of her Love,

His treasure-house above
Is open, day and night, with store
Of healing for our daily sore,

With grace to mourners given, O'er-powering, by the tide of tears, All that from old abhorred years

Remains of wasting leaven.

He pardoning wearies not. Ah why

Behold with evil eye
Thy brother asking grace for sin ?
He doth but aid thee, more to win

Of hope in thy last end.
In heart forgive—that pays Him all :
But grudging souls must die in thrall,

No Saviour and no Friend.

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“For I have five brethren; that he may testify unto them, lest they also come into this place of torment."

Five loving souls, each one as mine,
And each for evermore to be !
Each deed of each to thrill

For good or ill
Along thine awful line,

Eternity!

Who for such burthen may suffice ?
Who bear to think, how scornful tone,
Or word or glance too bold,

Or ill dream told,
May bar from Paradise

Our Master's own ?

We scatter seeds with careless hand,
And dream we ne'er shall see them more :
But for a thousand years

Their fruit appears,
In weeds that mar the land,

Or healthful store.

The deeds we do, the words we say,-
Into still air they seem to fleet,
We count them ever past ;

But they shall last,
In the dread judgment they

And we shall meet !

I charge thee by the years gone by,
For the love's sake of brethren dear,
Keep thou the one true way

In work and play,
Lest in that world their

cry
Of woe thou hear !

2.

PRESUMPTION.

“Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing ?"

DEAR Child, to thee the tale is told
Of him who robb’d the poor man's fold.
Thou listenest, and with scorn and ire
Thy quivering brow is all on fire.
Thou think’st, ( never sure on me
So foul a blot shall Angels see.
For joy thou hold'st thine eager breath
To hear him doom'd ;-he dies the death.

But mark, young David was as thou,
A generous boy with open

brow. With heart as pure as mountain air He carolld to his fleecy care :

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