I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will remember not past years.

So long thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone ;

And with the morn those angel faces smile

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

Hope.

THE WORLD'S AGE.

WHO will say the world is dying?

Who will say our prime is past

Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,
Flash, and will flash till the last.
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
Man a tool to buy and sell;
Earth a failure, God-forsaken,
Anteroom of Hell.

Still the race of Hero-spirits

Pass the lamp from hand to hand; Age from age the words inherits— 'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.' Still the youthful hunter gathers Fiery joy from wold and wood; He will dare, as dared his fathers, Give him cause as good.

While a slave bewails his fetters;
While an orphan pleads in vain ;
While an infant lisps his letters,
Heir of all the ages' gain;
While a lip grows ripe for kissing ;
While a moan from man is wrung;
Know, by every want and blessing,
That the world is young.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

ON THE AUTHORITY OF ANTIQUITY.

Catholic Chapel, Christmas Day, 1850.

WHY should the past loom out so fair and grand,

And the most ancient most demand our love?

Oh that we could with even balance stand
Between the past and future like the dove
We could between the wastes of clouds and waves
Gather the olive leaves, and turn again

Unto the home assigned to him who saves
The salt of this life. That supernal strain

Which sounded when the green-leaved world was

young,

Sounds still when the great petals ruby red
Expand, and still will sound, though still unsung
By poet-sage in years to come. The dread
Soul-giving voice of God that spoke of old

Speaks still, and he who hears is crowned with gold.

WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.

'I

HOPE BENEATH THE WATERS.

CANNOT mount to heaven beneath this ban:
Can Christian hope survive so far below

The level of the happiness of man?

Can angels' wings in these dark waters grow?'
A spirit voice replied, 'From bearing right
Our sorest burthens, comes fresh strength to bear;
And so we rise again towards the light,
And quit the sunless depths for upper air.
Meek patience is as diver's breath to all
Who sink in sorrow's sea, and many a ray
Comes gleaming downward from the source of day,
To guide us re-ascending from our fall.

The rocks have bruised thee sore, but angels' wings
Grow best from bruises, hope from anguish springs.'

CHARLES TURNER.

NOT IN VAIN.

AY not the struggle nought availeth,

SAY

The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

THE PATIENCE OF HOPE.

BLASPHEME not thou thy sacred life, nor turn

O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
Perchance to try thy spirit and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.
There lies no desert in the land of life;
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings rife.
Haply no more music and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But, when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast

Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.