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But if distractions manifold prevail,
And if in this we must confess we fail,
Grant us to keep at least a prompt desire,
Continual readiness for prayer and praise,
An altar heaped and waiting to take fire
With the least spark, and leap into a blaze.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

AN APPEAL.

WHAT

HAT mean these slow returns of love, these

days
Of withered prayer, of dead, unflowering praise ?
These hands of twilight laid on me, to keep
Dusk veils on holy vision? This most deep,
Most eyelid heavy, lamentable sleep?
Lo, time is precious as it was before;
As sinful sin; my goal as unattained:
And yet I drowse, and dream, and am not pained
At God far off as ever heretofore,
At sin as flagrant as of old, or more.
Dear Lord, what can I do? I come to Thee,
I have none other helper. Thou art free
To save me, or to kill. But I appeal
To thy dear love, which cannot elsewise deal
Than prove Thyself my friend, thy will my weal.
Wake, wake me, Lord !

Arouse me.

Let thy fire Loosen these icicles, and make them drop

And run into warm tears; for I aspire
To hold Thee faster, dearer, warmer, nigher,
And love and serve Thee henceforth without stop.

HENRY S. SUTTON.

QUI LABORAT ORAT.
O ONLY
Source of all our light and life

, Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, But whom the hours of mortal moral strife

Alone aright reveal !
Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought,

Thy presence owns ineffable, divine;
Chastised each rebel self-encentred thought,

My will adoreth thine.
With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind

Speechless remain, or speechless e’en depart;
Nor seek to see—for what of earthly kind

Can see Thee as Thou art ?

If well assured 'tis but profanely bold

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see,
It dare not dare the dread communion hold

In ways unworthy Thee;
Oh, not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive,

In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ;
And if in work its life it seem to live,

Shalt make that work be prayer.

K

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,
So, with thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer
Approach Thee morn and night.

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.

MY

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 ;
I seek the treasure of thy love,

And close at hand it lies.
And a new song is in my mouth,

To long-loved music set-
Glory to Thee for all the grace
I have not tasted yet.

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
A kneeling host of thy redeemed

In fellowship with me.

There is a multitude around

Responsive to my prayer ;
I hear the voice of my desire

Resounding every where.
But the earnest of eternal joy
In every prayer

I trace ;
I see the glory of the Lord
On
every

chastened face.
How oft, in still communion known,

Those spirits have been sent
To share the travail of my soul,

Or show me what it meant !
And I long to do some work of love

No spoiling hand could touch,
For the poor and suffering of thy flock

Who comfort me so much.

But the yearning thought is mingled now

With the thankful song I sing ;
For thy people know the secret source

Of every precious thing.

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