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The last are first, the first are last,

As angel-eyes behold;
These from the sheep-cote sternly cast,

Those welcomed to the fold.

No Christian home, no pastor's eye,

No preacher's vocal zeal,
Moved Thy dear martyr to defy

The prison and the wheel.

Forth from the heathen ranks she stept,

The forfeit crown to claim
Of Christian souls who had not kept

Their birthright and their name.

Grace formed her out of sinful dust;

She knelt a soul defiled;
She'rose in all the faith and trust,

And sweetness of a child.


And in the freshness of that love

She preach'd, by word and deed,
The mysteries of the world above,

Her new-found glorious creed.



And running in a little hour

Of life the course complete,
She reached the throne of endless power,

And sits at Jesu's feet.

Her spirit there, her body here,

Make one the earth and sky;
We use her name, we touch her bier,

We know her God is nigh.

Praise to the Father, as is meet,

Praise to the only Son, Praise to the Holy Paraclete

While endless ages run,


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E walked by the side of the tranquil stream,

That the sun had tinged with his parting


The water was still, and so crystal clear
That every spray had its image there.

And every reed that o'er it bowed,
And the crimson streak, and the silvery cloud,
And all that was bright, and all that was fair,
And all that was gay, was reflected there.

And they said it was like to the chasten'd breast,
That religion soothes to a holy rest,
When sorrow has tamed the impassioned eye,
And the bosom reflects its expected sky.



But I took a stone that lay beside,
And I cast it far on the glassy tide ;
And gone was the charm of the pictured scene,
And the sky so bright, and the landscape green.

And I bade them mark, how an idle word,
Too lightly said, and too deeply heard ;
Or a harsh reproof, or a look unkind,
May spoil the peace of the heavenly mind.

Though sweet be the peace, and holy the calm,
And the heavenly beam be bright and warm,
The heart that it gilds is all as weak
As the wave that reflects the crimson streak.

You cannot impede the celestial ray
That lights the dawn of eternal day;
But so may you trouble the bosom it cheers,
'Twill cease to be true to the image it bears.


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ETTER to smell a violet,

Than sip the careless wine; Better to list one music tone, Than watch the jewels' shine.

Better to have the love of one,

Than smiles like morning dew; Better to have a living seed

Than flowers of every hue.

Better to feel a love within,

Than be lovely to the sight; Better a homely tenderness

Than beauty's wild delight.

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