The gross, adhesive loathsomeness of sin

Give me to see. Yet, oh far more, far more, That beautiful purity which the saints adore, In a consummate Paradise within

The veil, O Lord, upon my soul bestow,
An earnest of that purity here below.

DAVID GRAY.

DESIRE.

THOU, who dost dwell alone—

Thou, who dost know thine own

Thou, to whom all are known
From the cradle to the grave—
Save, oh, save!

From the world's temptations,

From tribulations;

From that fierce anguish

Wherein we languish ;

From that torpor deep

Wherein we lie asleep,

Heavy as death, cold as the grave;

Save, oh, save!

When the Soul, growing clearer,
Sees God no nearer :

When the Soul, mounting higher,

To God comes no nigher:

But the arch-fiend Pride

Mounts at her side,

Foiling her high emprize,

Sealing her eagle eyes,

And, when she fain would soar,
Makes idols to adore ;

Changing the pure emotion

Of her high devotion

To a skin-deep sense

Of her own eloquence :

Strong to deceive, strong to enslave-
Save, oh, save !

From the ingrained fashion

Of this earthly nature

That mars thy creature :

From grief, that is but passion,

From mirth, that is but feigning;
From tears, that bring no healing;
From wild and weak complaining;
Thine old strength revealing,
Save, oh, save !

From doubt, where all is double :
Where wise men are not strong:
Where comfort turns to trouble:
Where just men suffer wrong :
Where sorrow treads on joy :
Where sweet things soonest cloy :
Where faiths are built on dust :

Where love is half mistrust,

Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea ;
Oh, set us free!

109

O let the false dream fly
Where our sick souls do lie
Tossing continually.

O where thy voice doth come
Let all doubts be dumb:

Let all words be mild :

All strifes be reconciled:
All pains beguiled.

Light bring no blindness;
Love no unkindness ;
Knowledge no ruin;

Fear no undoing.

From the cradle to the grave,

Save, oh, save!

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

BLOTTED PAGES.

EACH day a page is of my being's book,

And what I do is what I write therein;
And often do I make great blots of sin;
And seldom proves the writing much akin
To what, before 'twas writ, I undertook.

I turn a fresh leaf daily, and renew
My hopes of now at last a nobler page.
But presently in something I engage
That looks but poorly in a calm review,
And leaves my future a mean heritage.

So leaf on leaf, once clean, is turned and gone,
And the dark spots shine through, and I grow sad,
And blush, and frown, and sigh. And if I had
A million pages yet to write upon,

Perhaps the millionth would be just as bad.

What shall I do?—some new leaves even yet
May be before me. And perhaps I may
Write, even yet, some not ignoble day.
Alas! I do not know :-I cannot say.-
What is it to feel living?-I forget.

HENRY S. SUTTON.

LOSS.

GRIEVE not much for loss of wealth,

Loss of friends, or loss of fame,

Loss of years, or loss of health;

Answer, hast thou lost the shame

Whose early tremor once could flush
Thy cheek, and make thine eyes to gush,
And send thy spirit, sad and sore,
To kneel with face upon the floor,
Burdened with consciousness of sin?
Art thou cold and hard within,—
Sometimes looking back surprised
On thy old mood, scarce recognized,
As on a picture of thy face

In blooming childhood's transient grace?

Then hast thou cause for grief; and most
In seldom missing what is lost.
With the loss of Yesterday,

Thou hast lost To-day, To-morrow,-
All thou might'st have been. O pray
(If pray thou canst) for poignant sorrow.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

MY

PETTISHNESS.

Y mind was ruffled with small cares to-day, And I said pettish words, and did not keep Long-suffering patience well; and now how deep My trouble for this sin! In vain I weep For foolish words I never can unsay.

Yet not in vain, oh surely not in vain!
This sorrow must compel me to take heed;
And surely I shall learn how much I need
Thy constant strength my own to supersede,
And all my thoughts to patience to constrain.

Yes, I shall learn at last; though I neglect,
Day after day, to seek my help from Thee.
Oh aid me, that I always recollect
This gentle-heartedness; and, oh, correct
Whatever else of sin Thou seest in me.

HENRY S. SUTTON.