But ill for him who, bettering not with time,
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime,
Or seeming-genial, venial fault,
Recurring and suggesting still!
He seems as one whose footsteps halt,
Toiling in immeasurable sand,
And o'er a weary, sultry land,
Far beneath a blazing vault,
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,
The city sparkles like a grain of salt.
NATURE, so far as in her lies,
Imitates God, and turns her face
To every land beneath the skies,
Counts nothing that she meets with base,
But lives and loves in every place.
NAAMAN'S SERVANT.
"WHO for the like of me will care?"
So whispers many a mournful heart,
When in the weary, languid air,
For grief or scorn we pine apart.
So haply mused yon little maid,
From Israel's breezy mountain borne,
No more to rest in Sabbath shade,
Watching the free and waving corn.
A captive now, and sold, and bought,
In the proud Syrian's hall she waits,
Forgotten-such her moody thought—
Even as the worm beneath the gates.
But One who ne'er forgets us here:
He hath a word for thee to speak :
Oh, serve Him yet in duteous fear,
And to thy Gentile lord be meek.
So shall the healing Name be known
By thee on many a heathen shore,
And Naaman on his chariot throne
Wait humbly by Elisha's door.
By thee desponding lepers know
The sacred water's sevenfold might,
Then wherefore sink in listless woe?
Christ's poor and needy claim your right.
Your heavenly right to do and bear
All for His sake; nor yield one sigh
To pining doubt; nor ask "Who care
In the wide world for such as I?"
WORK, FOR THE NIGHT IS COMING.
WORK, for the night is coming;
Work, through the morning hours;
Work, while the dew is sparkling;
Work, 'mid springing flowers:
Work, when the day grows brighter,
Work, in the glowing sun ;
Work, for the night is coming,
When man's work is done.
Work, for the night is coming;
Work, through the sunny noon ;
Fill brightest hours with labour;
Rest comes sure and soon.
Give every flying minute
Something to keep in store;
Work, for the night is coming,
When man works no more.
Work, for the night is coming,
Under the sunset skies;
While their bright tints are glowing,
Work, for daylight flies.
Work, till the last beam fadeth,
Fadeth to shine no more:
Work, while the night is darkening,
When man's work is o'er.
NO THORN WITHOUT A ROSE.
"THERE is no rose without a thorn!" Who has not found it true,
And known that griefs of gladness born
Our footsteps still pursue?
That in the grandest harmony
The strangest discords rise,
The brightest bow we only see
Upon the darkest skies?
No thornless rose ! So more and more
Our pleasant hopes are laid,
Where waves this sable legend o'er
A still sepulchral shade.
But Faith and Love with angel might,
Break up life's dismal tomb,
Transmitting into golden light
The worlds of leaden gloom.
Reversing all this funeral pall,
White raiment they disclose,
Their happy songs float full and long,-
No thorn without a rose.
No shadow but its sister light
Not far away must burn;
No weary night but morning bright
Shall follow in its turn.
No chilly snow but safe below
A million buds are sleeping;
No wintry days, but fair spring rays
Are swiftly onward sweeping.
With fiercest glare of summer air
Comes fullest leafy shade;
And ruddy fruit bends every shoot,
Because the blossoms fade.
No note of sorrow but shall melt
In sweetest chord unguessed;
No labour all too pressing felt
But ends in quiet rest.
No sigh but from the harps above
Soft echoing tones shall win;
No heart-wound but the Lord of Love
Shall pour His comfort in.
No withered hope, while loving best
Thy Father's chosen way;
No anxious care, for He will bear
Thy burdens every day.
Thy claim to rest on Jesu's breast
All weariness shall be;
And pain thy portal to His heart
Of boundless sympathy.
No conflict but the King's own hand
Shall end the glorious strife;
No death but leads thee to the land Of everlasting life.
Sweet seraph voices, Faith and Love,
Sing on within our hearts
This strain of music from above
Till we have learnt our parts;
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