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WOULD have gone; God bade me stay:

I would have worked ; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day, He read my yearnings unexpressed

And said them nay.

Now I would stay; God bids me go:

Now I would rest; God bids me work.
He breaks my heart tossed to and fro,
My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk

And vex it so.

I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;

Day after day I plod and moil; But, Christ my God, when will it be That I may let alone my toil

And rest with Thee ?

Miss ROSSETTI.

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COW is that before mine eyes,

While gazing on thy mien,

All my past years of life arise, As in a mirror seen ? What spell within thee hath been shrined, To image back my own deep mind ?

Even as a song of other times,

Can trouble Memory's springs; Even as a sound of vesper-chimes,

Can wake departed things ; Even as a scent of vernal flowers Hath records fraught with vanished hours;

Such power is thine !—they come, the dead,

From the grave's bondage free,

TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.

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And smiling back the changed are led,

To look in love on thee;
And voices that are music flown
Speak to me in the heart's full tone,

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress,

The thoughts of happier years,
And a vain gush of tenderness

O’erflows in child-like tears;
A passion which I may not stay,
A sudden fount that must have way.

But thou, the while-oh, almost strange,

Mine imaged self ! it seems
That on thy brow of peace no change

Reflects my own swift dreams :
Almost I marvel not to trace
Those lights and shadows in thy face.

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep,

Affection—Memory—Grief-
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sleep

O'er a frail aspen-leaf !
Oh! that the quiet of thine eye
Might sink there when the storm goes by!

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TO MY OWN PORTRAIT

Yet look thou still serenely on;

And if sweet friends there be,
That when my song and soul are gone

Shall seek my form in thee,--
Tell them of One for whom 'twas best
i To “flee away and be at rest!”

MRS. HEMANS.

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T

HE number of Thine own complete,

Sum up and make an end ; Sift clean the chaff, and house the wheat, And then, O Lord, descend.

Descend, and solve by that descent

This mystery of life;
Where good and ill together blent,

Wage an undying strife.

For rivers twain are gushing still

And pour a mingled flood; Good in the very depths of ill,

Ill in the heart of good.

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