Every character, whate'er its sweetness,
Is but the fruit all blighted and unripe,
Still ever striving towards its own completeness,
Still ever yearning towards its highest type.
And only as we know and love them duly,
As buds and promise of a fairer growth,
Shall we know how to weigh and prize them truly,
And trace the true unto the perfect truth.
Though lost and fallen is our perfect being,
Yet still in all its ruins we may see,
And strive we still, the far completeness seeing,
To reach once more the highest we can be.
And strive we, following in our love and duty
Him who doth highest and all purest shine, Who raised our human to its highest beauty, By blending with it His own bright divine.
LL night the lonely suppliant prayed,
All night his earnest crying made,
Till standing by his side at morn,
The tempter said in bitter scorn,
"O, peace: what profit do you gain,
"From empty words and babblings vain?
Come, Lord-O come!' you cry alway, "You pour your heart out night and day; "Yet still no murmur of reply
"No voice that answers, 'Here am I.'"
Then sank that stricken heart in dust,
That word had withered all its trust;
No strength retained it now to pray,
While faith and hope had fled away:
And ill that mourner now had fared,
Thus by the tempter's art ensnared,
But that at length beside his bed
His sorrowing angel stood, and said—
"Doth it repent thee of thy love,
"That never now is heard above
'Thy prayer; that never any more
"It knocks at heaven's gate as before?"
"I am cast out-I find no place,
"No hearing at the throne of grace;
"Come, Lord, O come!' I cry alway,
"I pour my heart out night and day,
"Yet never until now have won
“The answer—'Here am I, my
"Oh dull of heart!-enclosed doth lie,
"In each 'Come, Lord!' a 'Here am I,'
"Thy love, thy longing, are not thine-
"Reflections of a love divine;
Thy very prayer to thee was given, "Itself a messenger from heaven.”
TRIVE; yet I do not promise
The prize you dream of to-day Will not fade when you think to grasp it, And melt in your hand away; But another and holier treasure, You would now perchance disdain, Will come when your toil is over, And pay you for all your pain.
Wait; yet I do not tell you
The hour you long for now,
Will not come with its radiance vanished,
And a shadow upon its brow;
Yet, far through the misty future,
With a crown of starry light,
An hour of joy you know not,
Is winging her silent flight.
Pray; though the gift you ask for,
May never comfort your fears,
May never repay your pleading,
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears;
An answer, not that you long for,
But diviner, will come one day;
Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet strive, and wait, and pray.
"Thou maintainest my lot."-Psalm xvi, 5.
OURCE of my life's refreshing springs,
Whose presence in my heart sustains me,
Thy love appoints me pleasant things,
Thy mercy orders all that pains me.
If loving hearts were never lonely,
If all they wished might always be,
Accepting what they look for only,
They might be glad, but not in Thee.
Well may thy own beloved, who see
In all their lot their Father's pleasure,
Bear loss of all they love, save Thee,
Their living, everlasting treasure.
Well may Thy happy children cease
From restless wishes prone to sin,
And in Thine own exceeding peace,
Yield to Thy daily discipline.
We need as much the cross we bear,
As air we breathe-as light we see;
It draws us to Thy side in prayer,
It binds us to our strength in Thee.
Lord, and what shall this man do?"
ORD, and what shall this man do?
Ask'st thou, Christian, for thy friend?
If his love for Christ be true,
Christ hath told thee of his end:
This is he whom God approves,
This is he whom Jesus loves.
Ask not of him more than this,
Leave it in his Saviour's breast,
Whether, early called to bliss,
He in youth shall find his rest,
Or arméd in his station wait
Till his Lord be at the gate:
Whether in his lonely course
(Lonely, not forlorn) he stay,
Or with Love's supporting force
Cheat the toil and cheer the way:
Leave it all in His high hand,
Who doth hearts as streams command.
Gales from heaven, if so He will,
Sweeter melodies can wake
On the lonely mountain rill,
Than the meeting waters make. Who hath the Father and the Son, May be left, but not alone.
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