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Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
And joy its own security.
Live in the spirit of this creed ;
No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust; And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control ;
But in the quietness of thought :
My hopes no more must change their name,
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
As is the smile upon thy face :
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ;
fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power !
I call thee: I myself commend
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
The confidence of reason give;
THE RIGHT MUST WIN.
OH it is hard to work for God,
To rise and take his part
And not sometimes lose heart !
He hides himself so wondrously,
As though there were no God;
Of ill are most abroad.
Or He deserts us at the hour
The fight is all but lost;
And seems to leave us to ourselves
Just when we need Him most.
It is not so, but so it looks ;
And we lose courage then ;
His promises to men.
His ways are far above,
Only by child-like love.
The look, the fashion of God's ways,
Love's lifelong study are ;
When reason would not dare.
Thrice blest is he to whom is given
The instinct that can tell
Is most invisible.
Blest, too, is he who can divine
Where real right doth lie,
Wrong to man's blindfold eye.
Then learn to scorn the praise of men,
And learn to lose with God; For Jesus won the world through shame,
And beckons thee his road.
For right is right, since God is God;
And right the day must win ;
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
THE MANLY LIFE.
THRICE happy he whose name is writ above,
And doeth good though gaining infamy;
And recks not what befalls him outwardly :
Who placeth pleasure in his purged soul,
And virtuous life his treasure doth esteem; Who can his passions master and control,
And that true lordly manliness doth deem; Who from this world himself hath clearly quit, Counts nought his own but what lives in his sprite.
So, when his sprite from this vain world shall flit,
It bears all with it whatsoe'er was dear
As kindly ripened corn comes out of th' ear.
UN HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF
OW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But
my late spring no bud or blossom show'th.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,