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Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,
And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan:
One day upon his bosom, all thine own,
Thou shalt lie still, embraced in holy death.

III.

And weep not, though the Beautiful decay
Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes ;
Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies,
Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay.
Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away ;
Her form departs not, though her body dies.
Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies,
Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day,
Through the kind nurture of the winter cold.
Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive
The summer time, when roses were alive;
Do thou thy work—be willing to be old :
Thy sorrow is the husk that doth enfold
A gorgeous June for which thou need'st not strive.

IV.

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And should the twilight darken into night,
And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong;
Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong
Which a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright.
That thou dost know the darkness, proves the light.
Weep if thou wilt, but weep not all too long;
Or weep and work, for work will lead to song.
But search thy heart, if hid from all thy sight

There lie no cause for beauty's slow decay;
If for completeness and diviner youth,
And not for very love, thou seek'st the truth;
If thou hast learned to give thyself away
For love's own self, not for thyself, I say:
Were God's love less, the world were lost, in sooth.

V.

And do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain
More than the father's heart rich good invent?
Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent,
We know the primrose time will come again;
Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain.
Be bounteous in thy faith, for not misspent
Is confidence unto the Father lent:
Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain.
His thoughts are as thine own; nor are his ways
Other than thine, but by their loftier sense
Of beauty infinite and love intense.
Work on.

One day, beyond all thoughts of praise,
A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays;
Nor other than thy need, thy recompense.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

A DAY'S RELEASE.

DAY
AY after day, until to-day,

Imaged its fellows gone before,
The same dull task, the weary way,

The weakness pardoned o'er and o'er ;

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The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt,

For joy's well-nigh forgotten life,
The restless heart, which, when I knelt,

Made of my worship barren strife.

Ah, whence to-day's so sweet release ;

This clearance light of all my care, This conscience free, this fertile peace,

These softly-folded wings of prayer;

This calm and more than conquering love,

With which the Tempter dares not cope; This joy that lifts no glance above,

For faith too sure, too sweet for hope?

O, happy time, too happy change,

It will not live, though fondly nursed !
Full soon this day will seem as strange
As now the Dark which seems dispersed.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

AGAINST TEARS.
THIS world is all too sad for tears,

I would not weep, not I,
But smile along my life's short road,

Until I, smiling, die.

The little flowers breathe sweetness out

Through all the dewy night;
Should I more churlish be than they,

And 'plain for constant light?

Not so, not so, no load of woe

Need bring despairing frown ;
For while we bear it, we can bear,
Past that, we lay it down.

SARAH WILLIAMS.

WEARINESS.

AR

RT thou already weary of the way?

Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o'er : Get up, and lift thy burden ; lo ! before Thy feet the road goes stretching far away. If thou already faint who hast but come Through half thy pilgrimage, with fellows gay, Love, youth, and hope, under the rosy bloom And temperate airs of early breaking day; Look yonder, how the heavens stoop and gloom. There cease the trees to shade, the flowers to spring, And the angels leave thee. What wilt thou become Through yon drear stretch of dismal wandering, Lonely and dark ?—I shall take courage, friend, For comes not every step more near the end ?

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

SONNET.

MOURNER, that dost deserve thy mournfulness,

Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell ; Say God is angry, and I earned it well ; I would not have Him smile and not redress.' Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less.

God rules at least, I find, as prophets tell,

And proves it in this prison.' Straight thy cell Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness. --A prison—and yet, from door and window-bar,

I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air ;

Even to me his days and nights are fair;
He shows me many a flower, and many
And though I mourn, and He is very far,
He does not kill the hope that reaches there.'

ANONYMOUS.

star;

WITH HIS STRIPES WE ARE HEALED.

A VOICE upon the midnight

air

,

Where Kedron's moonlit waters stray,
Weeps forth, in agony of prayer,

“O Father ! take this cup away!'

Ah! Thou who sorrowest unto death,
We

conquer in thy mortal fray;
And Earth, for all her children, saith,

"O God! take not this cup away !'

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