Ο Blessed Are They That Mourn. H, deem not they are blessed alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And thou who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,- For God hath marked each sorrowing day, William Cullen Bryant. O, Adam's Morning Hymn in Paradise. THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good, In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. And when high noon has gained, and when thou fall'st. Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, -Milton. Our refuge when the spoiler's hand We praised Him when to prison led, We owned Him when the stake blazed red; He heard our prayers; with outstretched arm He led us forth from cruel harm; His cloud and fire before us went! L The watch of faith and prayer He set; Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight The lies of time; be swift to smite, Sharp sword of God, all idols down, Genevan creed and Roman crown. Quake, earth through all thy zones, till all Lo! rising from the baptismal flame, He cometh soon! at dawn or noon -John Greenleaf Whittier. A Thanksgiving for His House. ORD, thou hast given me a call, Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof, Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who hither come, and freely get Like as my parlor, so my hall, A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead. Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits that be The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 't is Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land: All this, and better, dost Thou send Me for this end: That I should render for my part A thankful heart, Which, fired with incense, I resign As wholly Thine: But the acceptance-that must be, O Lord, by Thee. -Robert Herrick. A He Doeth His Alms to Be Seen of Men. POOR little girl in a tattered gown, Wandering alone through the crowded town All weary and worn on the curb sat down, By the side of the way to rest; Bedimmed with tears were her eyes of brown, The night was approaching-the winter's chill blast Now hurriedly passing along the street, Some aid from the passer by; But slowly and sadly resumes her seat, He saw the wind tempest resistlessly whirl He went to a charity meeting that night The suffering poor to relieve; And held up his check for a thousand at sight, He handed the check to the treasurer, when The paper next morning had much to say So much for the poor man's cause. Near by, the same paper went on to repeat With only the snow for a winding sheet- Ah! who can declare that when God shall unfold Eternity's records, he will not hold Him guilty of murder, who seeks with his gold, The praises of men, while out in the cold -Anonymous. "M Bread on the Waters. WISTER," the little fellow said, I turned to look at the ragged form, That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, Pinched and haggard and old with care, In accents pleading, was standing there. 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old; He shivered and shook in the bitter cold, His eyes were red-with weeping, I fearAnd adown his cheeks there rolled a tear E'en then. His misery struck me dumb; 'Twas a street in a crowded city slum, Where an errand of duty led my feet That day, through the storm and blinding sleet. "Poor little fellow !" at last I said, "Have you no father?" "No, he's dead!" The answer came: "You've a mother, then ?" "I am starved; we are all starving," he said, I did not wait To ask him more. "Come, come," I cried, But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me stop And we entered. "Now eat away, my boy, As much as you like," I said. With joy, And a soft expression of childish grace, He looked up into my friendly face, Said I: The tears came rushing-I can't tell why- I slipped a bright new dollar; then said, 'Twas four years ago. But one day last May, As I wandered by chance through East Broadway, A cheery voice accosted me. Lo! 'Twas the self-same lad of years ago, Though larger grown-and his looks, in truth, Bespoke a sober, industrious youth. "Mister," he said, "I'll never forget The kindness you showed when last we met. I work at a trade, and mother is well, So is baby Kate; and I want to tell You this-that we owe it all to you. 'Twas you don't blush, sir-that helped us through In our darkest hour; and we always say Memorial Hymn---J. A. Garfield. OW all ye flowers make room; NOW Hither we come in gloom To make a mighty tomb, Sighing and weeping. Grand was the life he led; Wise was each word he said; But with the noble dead We leave him sleeping. Soft may his body rest As on his mother's breast, Whose love stands all confessed 'Mid blinding tears; But may his soul so white Rise in triumphant flight, And in God's land of light Spend endless years. -David Swing. W Hymn of the Hebrew Maid. HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame, By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between, No portents now our foes' amaze— Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 253 But, present, still though now unseen, Our harps we left by Babel's streams- And mute are timbrel, trump and horn. -Sir Walter Scott. |