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But if distractions manifold prevail,
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.
HAT mean these slow returns of love, these
Let thy fire Loosen these icicles, and make them drop
And run into warm tears; for I aspire
HENRY S. SUTTON.
QUI LABORAT ORAT.
, Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, But whom the hours of mortal moral strife
Alone aright reveal !
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine;
My will adoreth thine.
Speechless remain, or speechless e’en depart;
Can see Thee as Thou art ?
If well assured 'tis but profanely bold
In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see,
In ways unworthy Thee;
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ;
Shalt make that work be prayer.
Nor times shall lack, when, while the work it plies,
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part, And, scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes
In recognition start.
But, as Thou willest, give or e'en forbear
The beatific supersensual sight,
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
TO THE SUPREME BEING.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: My unassisted heart is barren clay, That of its native self can nothing feed : Of good and pious works Thou art the seed, That quickens only where Thou say'st it may : Unless Thou show to us thine own true way No man can find it: Father ! Thou must lead. Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred That in thy holy footsteps I may tread: The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of Thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly.
WORDSWORTH (from MICHAEL ANGELO).
Praise and Adoration.
THE LORD IS MY PORTION.
Y heart is resting, O my God,
I will give thanks and sing; My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing. Now the frail vessel Thou hast made
No hand but thine shall fill, For the waters of the Earth have failed,
And I am thirsty still.
I thirst for springs of heavenly life,
And here all day they rise ;
And close at hand it lies.
To long-loved music set-
Sometimes I long for promised bliss,
But it will not come too lateAnd the songs of patient spirits rise
From the place wherein I wait; While, in the faith that makes no haste,
My soul has time to see
In fellowship with me.
There is a multitude around
Responsive to my prayer ;
Resounding every where.
I trace ;
Those spirits have been sent
Or show me what it meant !
No spoiling hand could touch,
Who comfort me so much.
But the yearning thought is mingled now
With the thankful song I sing ;
Of every precious thing.