I MY PSALM. MOURN no more my vanished years: Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, The west-winds blow, and, singing low, No longer forward, nor behind, I plough no more a desert land, The manna dropping from God's hand I break my pilgrim staff,-I lay The angel sought so far away The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn; L Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look The woods shall wear their robes of praise, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Not less shall manly deed and word The graven flowers that wreathe the sword But smiting hands shall learn to heal,— All as God wills, who wisely heeds Enough that blessings undeserved That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved That more and more a Providence Making the springs of time and sense. That death seems but a covered way That care and trial seem at last, That all the jarring notes of life And so the shadows fall apart And so the west-winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Faith. 'STRONG SON OF GOD.' TRONG Son of God, immortal Love, STR Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why; He thinks he was not made to die ; And Thou hast made him: Thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood Thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; We have but faith: we cannot know; Let knowledge grow from more to more, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock Thee when we do not fear; But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. ALFRED TENNYSON. 'WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS.' T fortifies my soul to know IT That, though I perish, Truth is so; That, howsoe'er I stray and range, That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. |