363

Show them in thine the Christian's lot,
So dark and drear in worldly eyes,
And yet he would exchange it not

For all they most pursue and prize.
From meaner cares and trammels free,
He soars above the world, like thee;
And fed and nurtured from above,
Returns the debt in grateful love.

Frail, like thyself, fair flower, is he,

And beat by every storm and shower; Yet on a rock he stands, like thee,

And braves the tempest's wildest power. And there he blooms, and gathers still A good from every seeming ill; And pleased with what his lot has given, He lives to God, and looks to heaven. HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

1846.

MY MINDE TO ME A KINGDOM IS.

My minde to me a kingdom is;

Such perfect joy therein I finde As farre exceeds all earthly blisse

That God or nature hath assignde; Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my minde forbids to crave.

Content I live; this is my stay, ·

I seek no more than may suffice.
I presse to beare no haughtie sway;
Look, what I lack my minde supplies.
Loe, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my minde doth bring.

I see how plentie surfets oft,

And hastie clymbers soonest fall;

I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all.

These get with toile, and keepe with feare;
Such cares my minde could never beare.

No princely pompe nor welthie store,
No force to win the victorie,

No wylie wit to salve a sore,

No shape to winne a lover's eye, To none of these I yeeld as thrall; For why, my minde despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more.

They are but poore, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lacke, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's losse,
I grudge not at another's gaine;

No worldly wave my minde can tosse;

I brooke that is another's bane.
I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend;
I lothe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly blisse;

I weigh not Cresus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is;

I feare not fortune's fatal law; My minde is such as may not move For beautie bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seeke for more;

I like the plaine, I clime no hill;

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, And laugh at them that toile in vaine To get what must be lost againe.

I kisse not where I wish to kill;

I feigne not love where most I hate ; I breake no sleepe to winne my will ; I wayte not at the mightie's gate. I scorne no poore, I feare no rich; I feele no want, nor have too much.

The court ne cart I like ne loath.—

Extreames are counted worst of all; The golden meane betwixt them both

Doth surest sit, and feares no fall;
This is my choyce; for why, I finde
No wealth is like a quiet minde.

My wealth is health and perfect ease:
My conscience clere my chiefe defence;
I never seeke by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence.
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I !

SIR EDMUND DYER, altered by
WILLIAM BYRD, 1588

A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.

THOMAS PARNELL, a contemporary of Pope, was born in Dublin, in 1679, and died at Chester, Oct. 18, 1718, or July, 1717. He was the author of a popular poem, entitled "The Hermit." He was a clergyman.

LOVELY, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favorites of the sky
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, ob, whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calms and ease?

Ambition searches all its sphere

Of pomp and state, to meet thee there.
Increasing avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrined.
The bold adventurer ploughs his way,
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love, and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart, which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude 's the nurse of woe.

No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground:
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below:
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last for knowledge rise.

Lovely, lasting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

'T was thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceived
The branches whisper as they waved:
It seemed as all the quiet place
Confessed the presence of the Grace;
When thus she spoke: "Go, rule thy will;
Bid thy wild passions all be still;
Know God, and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then every grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."

Oh, by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ
With sense of gratitude and joy;
Raised as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleased and blessed with God alone:
Then, while the gardens take my sight
With all the colors of delight,
While silver waters glide along
To please my ear and court my song,
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, Great Source of Nature, sing.

The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world and give the day;

The moon that shines with borrowed light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumbered waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain; —
All of these, and all I see,

Should be sung, and sung by me :

They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go, search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes,
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

THOMAS PARNELL, D.D.

365

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath

Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within, and all God's workings

see,

We could interpret all this doubt and strife,
And for each mystery could find a key.

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart!
God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold.
We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,
Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.
And if, through patient toil, we reach the land
Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may
rest,

When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we will say, "God knew the best!"

MAY RILEY SMITH.

SOMETIME.

SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned,

And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned,

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet,

Will flash before us, out of life's dark night,

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right,

And how what seems reproof was love most

true.

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,

God's plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, Because his wisdom to the end could see. And e'en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good.

And if sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink,

Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. And if some friend we love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so,

But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!

NOT LOST.

FRANCES RIDLEY Havergal, daughter of the late Rev. William, Henry Havergal, a clergyman of the Church of England, was born in 1837, when her father was rector of Astley, Worcestershire, and died June 3, 1879, at her home, "The Mumbles," near Swansea, Wales. Miss Havergal was a devoted Christian woman, and wrote many religious verses which endeared her to her readers.

WHERE are the countless crystals,

So perfect and so bright,
That robed in softest ermine

The winter day and night?
Not lost! for, life to many a root,
They rise again in flower and fruit.

Where are the mighty forests,
And giant ferns of old,
That in primeval silence

Strange leaf and frond unrolled?
Not lost! for now they shine and blaze,
The light and warmth of Christmas days.

Where are our early lessons,

The teachings of our youth, The countless words forgotten Of knowledge and of truth? Not lost! for they are living still, As power to think and do and will.

Where is the seed we scatter,
With weak and trembling hand,
Beside the gloomy waters,

Or on the arid land?
Not lost! for after many days
Our prayer and toil shall turn to praise.

And fell at evensong.

I watched a nest from day to day,

A green nest full of pleasant shade,
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:

But when they should have hatched in May,
The two old birds had grown afraid
Or tired, and flew away.

Then in my wrath I broke the bough
That I had tended so with care,
Hoping its scent should fill the air;
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
Their ancient promise had been fair:
I would have vengeance now.

But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
And the eggs answered me again :
"Because we failed dost thou complain.
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod?”

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSetti.

REST.

REST is not quitting
This busy career;
Rest is the fitting

Of self to one's sphere.

'T is the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to the ocean After its life.

THE SEA-BIRD.

I'VE watched the sea-bird calmly glide
Unruffled o'er the ocean tide:
Unscared she heard the waters roar
In foaming breakers on the shore;
Fearless of ill, herself she gave
To rise upon the lifting wave,
Or sink, to be awhile unseen,
The undulating swells between:

Till, as the evening shadows grew,
Noiseless, unheard aloft she flew.
While soaring to her rockbound nest
A sunbeam lighted on her breast,
A moment glittered in mine eye,
Then quickly vanished through the sky.
While by the pebbly beach I stood,
That sea-bird on the waving flood
Pictured to my enraptured eye

A soul at peace with God: now high,
Now low, upon the gulf of life

Raised or depressed, in peace or strife,
Calmly she kens the changeful wave,
She dreads no storm, she fears no grave;
To her the world's tumultuous roar
Dies like the echo on the shore.
"Father! thy pleasure all fulfil,
I yield me to thy sovereign will;
Let earthly comforts ebb or rise,
Tranquil on thee my soul relies."
Then, as advance the shades of night,

Long plumed, she takes her heavenward flight;
But, as she mounts, I see her fling

A beam of glory from her wing;

A moment to my aching sight

Lost in the boundless fields of light!

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

QUATRAINS,

IN THE PERSIAN MANNER.

I.

Oн, be in God's clear world no dark and troubled sprite!

To Christ, thy Master mild, do no such foul despite ;

But show in look, word, mien, that thou belong'st to him,

Who says, "My yoke is easy, and my burden light."

II.

IV.

There came from heaven a flying turtle-dove,
And brought a leaf of clover from above;
He dropped it, — and oh, happy they that find!
The triple flower is faith and hope and love.
FRIEDRICH RUCKERT. Translated by
N. L. FROTHINGHAM.

THE PULLEY.

WHEN God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, "Let us," said he, " pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span."

So strength first made a way;

Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure:

When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, Rest in the bottom lay.

"For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; So both should losers be.

NICHOLAS BRETON, a pastoral writer of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, was born about 1555, and died in 1624. Little is known of his personal history.

I WOULD I were an excellent divine

That had the Bible at my fingers' ends;

Oh, praise the Lord, who makes all good and well!

Whether he life or death bestows, 't is good.

mine

How God doth make his enemies his friends: Rather than with a thundering and long prayer Be led into presumption, or despair.

This would I be, and would none other be,
But a religious servant of my God;
And know there is none other God but he,
Joy in his grace, and live but in his love,
And willingly to suffer mercy's rod,

And seek my bliss but in the world above.

And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer For all estates within the state of grace,