EXAGGERATION. WE overstate the ills of life, and take The choirs of singing angels overshone By God's clear glory, - down our earth to rake The shadow of hills across a level thrown, And pant like climbers. Near the alder-brake O brothers! let us leave the shame and sin ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE POET IN THE AND SORROW. SOME MURMUR WHEN THEIR SKY SOME murmur when their sky is clear If one small speck of dark appear And some with thankful love are filled, In palaces are hearts that ask, And all good things denied: RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D. D. SORROW. UPON my lips she laid her touch divine, died; She fixed her melancholy eyes on mine, I saw the west-wind loose his cloudlets white, I watched the lovely evening fade away. – STRONG Son of God! immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove! Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made! Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why; He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be; They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see ; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. A PRAYER IN MENTAL CONFLICT. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seemed my sin in me; Thy creature, whom I found so fair. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, ALFRED TENNYSON. A PRAYER IN MENTAL CONFLICT. My God! lo, here before thy face I cast me in the dust; Where is the hope of happier days? I shrink with fear and sore alarm As in mine hour of need thine arm As though thou couldst not see the grief As though thou wouldst not send relief When human helpers fail. Cannot thy might avert e'en now What seems my certain doom, Hast not thyself revealed O Father, compass me about With love, for I am weak; Thou seest it, my God; Oh, soothe my conscience' bitter smart, Lift off my sorrows' load! 821 I know thy thoughts are peace towards me, For sure thy counsel stands ! Though mountains crumble into dust, Thy covenant standeth fast: Who follows thee in pious trust Shall reach the goal at last. Though strange and winding seem the way While yet on earth I dwell, In heaven my heart shall gladly say, Take courage, then, my soul, nor steep Soon shalt thou cease to mourn and weep, He comes, he comes, the Strong to save; His light is breaking o'er the wave, C. WINKWORTH, 1855. LOW SPIRITS. FEVER and fret and aimless stir Love adds anxiety to toil, And sameness doubles cares, While one unbroken chain of work The flagging temper wears. The light and air are dulled with smoke : Voices are round me; smiles are near; Be quit of my long part; Lies heavy on my heart. Sweet thought of God! now do thy work As thou hast done before; Wake up, and tears will wake with thee, And the dull mood be o'er. |