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When I have thus triumphed awhile,

And think to build my nest,
Some cross conceits come fluttering by,

And interrupt my rest.

Then to the earth again I fall,

And from my low dust cry,
'Twas not in my wing, Lord, but thine,

That I got up so high.
And now, my God, whether I rise,

Or still lie down in dust,
Both I submit to thy blest will ;

In both, on Thee I trust.

Guide Thou my way, who art Thyself

My everlasting End,
That every step, or swift, or slow,
Still to Thyself may tend !

JOHN AUSTIN.

THE SHOWER.

'TWAS 50 ; I saw thy birth.

drowsy lake

'WAS

That
From her faint bosom breathed thee, the

disease
Of her sick waters and infectious ease.

But now at even,

for Heaven, Thou fall’st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake.

Too gross

Ah! it is so with me. Oft have I prest
Heaven with a lazy breath ; but fruitless this
Pierced not. Love only can, with quick access,

Unlock the way

When all else stray-
The smoke and exhalations of the breast.

Yet if as thou dost melt, and with thy train Of drops make soft the earth, my eyes could weep O'er my hard heart that's bound up and asleep,

Perhaps at last,

Some such showers past,
My God would give a sunshine after rain.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

DRYNESS IN PRAYER.

OH
H for the happy days gone by,

When love ran smooth and free,
Days when my spirit so enjoyed

More than earth's liberty !
Oh for the times when on my heart

Long prayer had never palled,
Times when the ready thought of God

Would come when it was called !
Then, when I knelt to meditate,

Sweet thoughts came o'er my soul,
Countless and bright and beautiful,

Beyond my own control.

What can have locked those fountains up?

Those visions what hath stayed ? What sudden act hath thus transformed

My sunshine into shade?

This freezing heart, O Lord ! this will

Dry as the desert sand, Good thoughts that will not come, bad thoughts

That come without command,

A faith that seems not faith, a hope

That cares not for its aim,
A love that none the hotter grows

At thy most blessed Name,

The weariness of prayer, the mist

O'er conscience overspread, The chill repugnance to frequent

The feast of angel's bread :

If this drear change be thine, O Lord !

If it be thy sweet will,
Spare not, but to the very brim

The bitter chalice fill.

But if it hath been sin of mine,

Then show that sin to me,
Not to get back the sweetness lost

But to make peace with Thee.

One thing alone, dear Lord ! I dread ;

To have a secret spot
That separates my soul from Thee,

And yet to know it not.

For when the tide of graces set

So full upon my heart,
I know, dear Lord! how faithlessly

I did my little part.

I know how well my heart hath earned

A chastisement like this,
In trifling many a grace away

In self-complacent bliss.

But if this weariness hath come

A present from on high,
Teach me to find the hidden wealth

That in its depths may lie.

So in this darkness I may learn

To tremble and adore,
To sound my own vile nothingness,

And thus to love Thee more,

To love Thee, and yet not to think

That I can love so much,To have Thee with me, Lord ! all day,

Yet not to feel thy touch.

If I have served Thee, Lord! for hire,

Hire which thy beauty showed,
Can I not serve Thee now for nought,

And only as my God?

Thrice blessed be this darkness then,

This deep in which I lie,
And blessed be all things that teach
God's dear Supremacy!

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

PRAYER

THERE is an awful quiet in the air,

And the sad earth, with moist imploring eye, Looks wide and wakeful at the pondering sky, Like patience slow subsiding to despair. But see, the blue smoke, as a voiceless prayer, Sole witness of a secret sacrifice, Unfolds its tardy wreaths, and multiplies Its soft chameleon breathings in the rare Capacious ether ;-so it fades away, And nought is seen beneath the pendent blue, The undistinguishable waste of day. So have I dreamed !--oh, may the dream be true ! That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, And grow as pure as He to whom they pray.

HARTLEY CULERIDGE.

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