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TAKE HEART
All day the stormy wind has blown

From off the dark and rainy sea;
No bird has past the window flown,
The only song has been the moan

The wind made in the willow-tree.
This is the summer's burial-time :

She died when dropped the earliest leaves;
And, cold upon her rosy prime,
Fell down the autumn's frosty rime;

Yet I am not as one that grieves, —
For well I know o'er sunny seas

The bluebird waits for April skies;
And at the roots of forest trees
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease,

And violets hide their azure eyes.
O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown

Beside some golden summer's bier, -
Take heart! Thy birds are only flown,
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown,
To greet thee in the immortal year!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

HOW WE LEARN GREAT truths are dearly bought. The common truth,

Such as men give and take from day to day, Comes in the common walks of easy life,

Blown by the careless wind across our way. Bought in the market, at the current price,

Bred of the smile, the jest, perchance the bowl,
It tells no tale of daring or of worth,

Nor pierces even the surface of a soul.
Great truths are greatly won. Not found by chance,

Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream,
But grasped in the great struggle of the soul,

Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream. Not in the general mart, ’mid corn and wine,

Not in the merchandise of gold and gems, Not in the world's gay halls of midnight mirth,

Not ’mid the blaze of regal diadems, But in the day of conflict, fear, and grief,

When the strong hand of God, put forth in might,

Ploughs up the subsoil of the stagnant heart,

And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light. Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours

Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, Truth springs, like harvest, from the well-ploughed field, And the soul feels it has not wept in vain.

HORATIUS BONAR

REAPER OF LIFE'S HARVEST
HO, REAPER of life's harvest ! .

Why stand with rusted blade
Until the night draws round thee

And the day begins to fade ?
Why stand ye idle, waiting

For reapers more to come ?
The golden morn is passing,

Why sit ye silent, dumb ?
Thrust in your sharpened sickle

And gather in the grain :
The night is fast approaching,

And noon will come again.
The Master calls for reapers,

And shall He call in vain ?
Shall sheaves lie there ungathered,

And waste upon the plain ?
Mount up the heights of wisdom,

And crush each error low;
Keep back no words of knowledge

That human hearts should know.
Be faithful to thy mission

In service of thy Lord,
And then a golden chaplet
Shall be thy just reward.

ANONYMOUS

MEMORIAL HYMN.- J. A. GARFIELD

Now all ye flowers make room ;
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.

RIPE GRAIN
O STILL, white face of perfect peace,

Untouched by passion, freed from pain, -
He who ordained that work should cease

Took to Himself the ripened grain. O noble face! your beauty bears

The glory that is wrung from pain,The high, celestial beauty wears

Of finished work, of ripened grain.
Of human care you left no trace,

No lightest trace of grief or pain, —
On earth an empty form and face —
In Heaven stands the ripened grain.

DORA READ GOODALE.

TO-MORROW
HEAVEN overarches earth and sea,

Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness.
Heaven overarches you and me :
A little while and we shall be —
Please God — where there is no more sea

Nor barren wilderness.
Heaven overarches you and me,

And all earth's gardens and her graves.
Look up with me, until we see
The day break and the shadows flee.
What though to-night wrecks you and me
If so to-morrow saves ?

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

ALL IS WELL
And all is well, though faith and form

Be sundered in the night of fear;
Well roars the storm to those that hear
A deeper voice across the storm.

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ;
That nothing walks with aimless feet ;

That not one life shall be destroyed,

Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete ;
That not a worm is cloven in vain ;

That not a moth with vain desire

Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain. Behold! we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall

At last — far off — at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (In Memoriam).

PARTED FRIENDS FRIEND after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end ! Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying, none were blest. Beyond the flight of time —

Beyond the reign of death -
There surely is some blessed clime

Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward and expire !
There is a world above

Where parting is unknown !
A long eternity of love

Formed for the good alone ;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere !
Thus star by star declines

Till all are passed away;

As morning high and higher shines

To pure and perfect day;
Nor sink those stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

PEACE PEACE, troubled heart ! the way 's not long before thee,

Lay down thy burden ; say to sorrow, cease; Be yon soft azure hand serenely o'er thee,

The blue, bright border to God's sphere of peace. Peace, troubled heart ! the hasty word may fret thee,

The cruel word may coldly probe and pierce; The Christ who suffered, loves thee, never leaves thee,

He pours His balm upon the fever fierce. Peace, troubled heart ! though marred thy best behavior,

To thy deep longing, thine aspiring cry, Listens thy Heavenly Kinsman, thy dear Savior

Healeth thy life-hurt, wipeth thy tears dry. Peace, lonely heart! Be patient. Thou 'lt see, waiting,

How perfect sympathy and love may meet;
Be patient, praying; all earth's discord grating

Wilt melt at last to love divine, complete.
Peace, troubled heart! O coward, weakly shrinking

Back from the chalice ! Saints and martyrs' meed, The chrism of suffering. Earthward, poor souls sinking,

Yearn for the heavenly joy, through human necd. Peace, troubled heart ! see yon strong ships all sailing

Through sun and storm, on to the solemn sea; Through summer calms, through wintry tempest quailing

Thus sailest thou, out to Infinity
Peace, troubled heart ! beyond these bitter breezes,

Mid Isles of Paradise, in airs of balm,
Where cruel wind or word ne'er wounds or freezes,

Thou 'lt gain at last the everlasting calm.
Peace, troubled heart! go out beneath the ether;

Rest in the marvellous sunshine of the sky; Watch the bees sail and sing in sunny leisure;

List the waves laughing as they loiter by. Peace, troubled heart ! if minor notes of sadness

Tremble through Nature's voices, every sigh Quickens the anthem of her mightier gladness,

Foretells fruition perfect by and by.

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