A

ART THOU WEARY?

RT thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distressed?

"Come to me," saith One, "and coming,
Be at rest."

Hath he marks to lead me to him,

If he be my Guide?

"In his feet and hands are wound-prints,
And his side."

Is there diadem as Monarch,

That his brow adorns?
"Yea, a crown, in very surety,
But of thorns."

If I find him, if I follow

What his guerdon here?
Many a sorrow, many a labor,
Many a tear.”

If I still hold closely to him,

What hath he at last?
"Sorrow vanquished, labor ended,
Jordan passed."

If I ask him to receive me,

Will he say me nay?

"Not till earth, and not till heaven,
Pass away."

Finding, following, keeping, struggling,
Is he sure to bless?

"Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs,

Answer, Yes."

Translation of John Mason Neale.

ST. STEPHEN THE SABAITE,

THE GUEST

[Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him; and he with me.]

PEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me;

I was sighing wearily.

Lamp and fire were out; the rain

Wildly beat the window-pane.

In the dark we heard a knock,
And a hand was on the lock:
One in waiting spake to me,
Saying sweetly,

"I am come to sup with thee!"

All my room was dark and damp:
"Sorrow," said I, "trim the lamp;
Light the fire, and cheer thy face;
Set the guest-chair in its place."
And again I heard the knock;
In the dark I found the lock:-
"Enter! I have turned the key!
Enter, Stranger,

Who art come to sup with me!"

Opening wide the door He came,
But I could not speak his name;
In the guest-chair took his place,
But I could not see his face!
When my cheerful fire was beaming,
When my little lamp was gleaming,
And the feast was spread for three,
Lo! my Master

Was the Guest that supped with me!

HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.

I HOLD STILL

AIN'S furnace heat within me quivers,

God's breath upon the flame doth blow, And all my heart in anguish shivers,

And trembles at the fiery glow:

And yet I whisper, As God will!

And in his hottest fire hold still.

He comes and lays my heart, all heated,
On the hard anvil, minded so

Into his own fair shape to beat it

With his great hammer, blow on blow:

And yet I whisper, As God will!

And at his heaviest blows hold still.

He takes my softened heart and beats it,-
The sparks fly off at every blow;
He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it,

And lets it cool, and makes it glow:
And yet I whisper, As God will!
And, in his mighty hand, hold still.

Why should I murmur? for the sorrow
Thus only longer-lived would be;
Its end may come, and will, to-morrow,
When God has done his work in me:
So I say, trusting, As God will!
And, trusting to the end, hold still.

He kindles for my profit purely

Affliction's glowing fiery brand, And all his heaviest blows are surely Inflicted by a Master-hand:

So I say, praying, As God will!

And hope in him, and suffer still.

Lord, what thou taught'st me to pray for,

Teach me to bear.

MARGARET DELAND.

I

MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE

AM old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown,
Afflicted and deserted of my kind;

Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong;

I murmur not that I no longer see:

Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to thee.

All-merciful One!

When men are furthest, then art thou most near; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face.

Is leaning toward me; and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,-
And there is no more night.

On my bended knee

I recognize thy purpose clearly shown:

My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see thyself alone.

Thyself

I have naught to fear:

This darkness is the shadow of thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred; here
Can come no evil thing.

Oh, I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in that radiance from the sinless land Which eye hath never seen!

Visions come and go:

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,

When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime

My being fills with rapture,-waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now a lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine:

Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,

Lit by no skill of mine.

ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL.

W"

THE VOYAGE

HICHEVER way the wind doth blow..
Some heart is glad to have it so;

Then blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone:

A thousand fleets from every zone
Are out upon a thousand seas;

And what for me were favoring breeze
Might dash another, with the shock
Of doom, upon some hidden rock.

And so I do not dare to pray
For winds to waft me on my way,
But leave it to a Higher Will
To stay or speed me; trusting still
That all is well, and sure that He

Who launched my bark will sail with me
Through storm and calm, and will not fail,
Whatever breezes may prevail,

To land me, every peril past.

Within his sheltering heaven at last.

Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,

My heart is glad to have it so;

And blow it east or blow it west,

The wind that blows, that wind is best.

CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON.