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Peace, troubled heart ! life's ever mocking seeming,

Life's weary dearth, life's aching sense of loss,
Are fitful phantoms of its transient dreaming,
While Faith stands steadfast gazing on the Cross.

MARY CLEMMER AMES.

I SHALL BE SATISFIED
Nor here ! not here ! not where the sparkling waters

Fade into mocking sands as we draw near;
Where in the wilderness each footstep falters -

I shall be satisfied — but oh! not here.
Not here! where every dream of bliss deceives us,

Where the worn spirit never gains its goal;
Where, haunted ever by the thoughts that grieve us,

Across us floods of bitter memory roll. There is a land where every pulse is thrilling

With rapture earth's sojourners may not know, Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling,

And peacefully life's time-tossed currents flow. Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us,

Lies the fair country where our hearts abide, And of its bliss is naught more wondrous told us

Than these few words — “I shall be satisfied.” Satisfied ! satisfied ! the spirit's yearning

For sweet companionship with kindred minds —
The silent love that here meets no returning —

The inspiration which no language finds —
Shall they be satisfied ? the soul's vague longing —

The aching void which nothing earthly fills ?
Oh, what desires upon my soul are thronging,

As I look upward to the heavenly hills ! Thither my weak and weary steps are tending –

Savior and Lord ! with thy frail child abide ! Guide me towards home, where, all my wanderings ending, I then shall see Thee, and “be satisfied.”

ANONYMOUS.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,-

There's nothing true but heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,

As fading hues of even;
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb,-

There 's nothing bright but heaven!
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we 're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way,–
There 's nothing calm but heaven !

THOMAS MOORE,

I TO0
“LET us spread the sail for purple islands,

Far in undiscovered tropic seas;
Let us track the glimmering arctic highlands

Where no breath of men, no leaf of trees
E'er has lived.” So speak the elders, telling

By the hearth, their list of fancies through,
Heedless of the child whose heart is swelling,

Till he cries at last, “ I too! I too !”
And I, too, O my Father! Thou hast made me

I have life, and life must have its way;
Why should love and gladness be gainsaid me ?

Why should shadows cloud my little day?
Naked souls weigh in thy balance even -

Souls of kings are worth no more than mine ;
Why are gifts e'er to my brother given,

While my heart and I together pine ?
Meanest things that breathe have, with no asking,

Fullest joys: the one-day's butterfly
Finds its rose, and, in the sunshine basking,

Has the whole of life ere it doth die.
Dove, no sorrow on thy heart is preying;

With thy full contentment thou dost coo; Yet, must man cry for a dove's life, saying,

“Make me as a dove — I too ! I too!" Nay, for something moves within — a spirit

Rises in his breast, he feels it stir ;
Soul-joys greater than the doves inherit

Should be his to feel ; yet, why defer
To a next world's veiled and far to-morrow

All his longings for a present bliss ?
Stones of faith are hard; oh, could he borrow,

From that world's great stores one taste for this !

Hungry stands he by his empty table,

Thirsty waits beside his empty well —
Nor with all his striving, is he able

One full joy to catch where hundreds swell
In his neighbor's bosom ; see, he sifteth

Once again his poor life through and through
Finds but ashes : is it strange he lifteth
Up his cry, “O Lord ! I too! I too !”

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,

When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam;
But high she shoots through air and light,

Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,

Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, God! from every care

And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,

To hold my course to thee!
No sin to cloud, - no lure to stay

My soul, as home she springs ; -
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings !

· THOMAS MOORE.

ALL BEFORE
O HEARTS that never cease to yearn !

O brimming tears that ne'er are dried !
The dead, though they depart, return

As though they had not died !
The living are the only dead;

The dead live — nevermore to die !
And often when we mourn them fled,

They never were so nigh!
And though they lie beneath the waves,

Or sleep within the churchyard dim —
(Ah ! through how many different graves

God's children go to him !)

Yet every grave gives up its dead

Ere it is overgrown with grass ;
Then why should hopeless tears be shed,

Or need we cry, “ Alas ” ?
Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom,

And like a sorrowing mourner craped,
Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,

Whose captives have escaped ?
'Tis but a mound, and will be mossed

Whene'er the summer grass appears ;
The loved, though wept, are never lost;

We only lose — our tears !
Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead

By bending forward where they are ;
But Memory, with a backward tread,

Communes with them afar.
The joys we lose are but forecast,

And we shall find them all once more ;
We look behind us for the Past,
But lo! 't is all before !

ANONYMOUS.

UP-HILL
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek ?
Yea, beds for all who come.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

WHEN
IF I were told that I must die to-morrow,

That the next sun
Which sinks would bear me past all fear and sorrow

For any one,
All the fight fought, all the short journey through,

What should I do?
I do not think that I should shrink or falter,

But just go on,
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter

Aught that is gone;
But rise and move and love and smile and pray

For one more day.
And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,

Say in that ear
Which harkens ever : “ Lord, within thy keeping

How should I fear ?
And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still,

Do thou thy will.”
I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,

My soul would lie
All the night long; and when the morning splendor

Flushed o'er the sky,
I think that I could smile — could calmly say,

“ It is His day.”
But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder

Held out a scroll
On which my life was writ, and I with wonder

Beheld unroll
To a long century's end its mystic clue,

What should I do?
What could I do, o blessed Guide and Master,

Other than this :
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,

Nor fear to miss
The road, although so very long it be,

While led by Thee ?
Step after step, feeling thee close beside me,

Although unseen,
Thro' thorns, thro' flowers, whether the tempest hide thee,

Or heavens serene,
Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray,

Thy love decay.

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