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Do we not feel you near ? does not your breath
O’ercome our cheek in many a lonely hour-
O’er the sad heart like dew upon a flower ?
Together have we talked of life and death,
Together pondered of the dread unknown.
The glorious mystery became your own.
All things are yours—the world of life and death;
And ye are Christ's, and His also are we-
For one lone soul another lonely soul, Each chasing each through all the weary hours,
And meeting strangely at one sudden goal.
WEAVER sat one day at his loom,
Among the colours bright,
With the pattern for his copying Hung fair and plain in sight.
But the weaver's thoughts were wandering
Away on a distant track,
Wearily forward and back.
And he turned his dim eyes to the ground,
And tears fell on the woof, For his thoughts, alas! were not with his home,
Nor the wife beneath its roof;
NEGLECTING THE PATTERN.
When her voice recalled him suddenly
To himself, as she sadly said:
And then the weaver looked, and saw
His work must be undone ; For the threads were wrong, and the colours
dimmed, Where the bitter tears had run.
“ Alack, alack!” said the weaver,
“ And this had all been right If I had not looked at my work, but kept
The pattern in my sight!”
Ah! sad it was for the weaver,
And sad for his luckless wife ; And sad it will be for us if we say,
At the end of our task of life
• The colours that we had to weave
Were bright in our early years ;
The woof with bitter tears.