Unchanging law binds all, And Nature all we see : Thou art a star, far off, too far, Too far to follow Thee! -Ah, sense-bound heart and blind! Can we not follow Thee? Is what we trace of law The whole of God's decree? Does our brief span grasp Nature's plan, And bid not follow Thee? O heavy cross-of faith In what we cannot see! If not as once Thou cam'st Come yet as guest within the breast That burns to follow Thee. Within our heart of hearts In nearest nearness be: Set up thy throne within thine own: Go, Lord: we follow Thee. FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. RESTORATION OF BELIEF. FOLLOW me, Jesus said, and they uprose, Peter and Andrew rose and followed him, Followed him even to Heaven through death most grim, And through a long hard life without repose, Save in the grand ideal of its close. 'Take up your cross and follow me,' He said, And the world answers yet through all her dead, And still would answer had we faith like those. Oh, who will speak again such words of fire! WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. O GOD, IMPART THY BLESSING. The waters of my heart are oft astir, Too oft that holy life comes o'er us now Like twilight echoes from a distant hill; We long for his pure looks and words sublime; The talk sweet-toned, and blessing all the time; CHARLES TURNER. FEVER LOW SPIRITS. EVER, and fret, and aimless stir, All chafing unsuccessful things, Make up the sum of life. Love adds anxiety to toil, And sameness doubles cares, While one unbroken chain of work The flagging temper wears. The light and air are dulled with smoke; Voices are round me; smiles are near; Kind welcomes to be had; And yet my spirit is alone, Fretful, outworn, and sad. A weary actor, I would fain Lies heavy on my heart. Sweet thought of God! now do thy work, As thou hast done before; Wake up, and tears will wake with thee, The very thinking of the thought, Oh, there is music in that thought Like sweet bells at the evening time 'Tis not his justice or his power, But the mere unexpanded thought Of the Eternal God. It is not of his wondrous works, Nor even that He is ; Words fail it, but it is a thought Which by itself is bliss. Sweet thought! lie closer to my heart, That I may feel thee near, M As one who for his weapon feels Mostly in hours of gloom thou com'st, As though thou wert the echo sweet I bless Thee, Lord, for this kind check And for all things that make me feel FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. THE SOUL. IS not the body more than meat? The soul The shortest smile that flits across a face Which lovely grief hath made her dwelling-place, Lasts longer than the earth or visible skies! It is an act of God, whose acts are truth, And vernal still in everlasting youth. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. |