He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Ah! sure within him and without, A second voice was at mine ear, As from some blissful neighbourhood, A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, Such seemed the whisper at my side: "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried, "A hidden hope," the voice replied: So heavenly-toned, that in that hour To feel, although no tongue can prove, And forth into the fields I went, I wondered at the bounteous hours, You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wondered, while I paced along: FAITH. From "In Memoriam."— Ibi That which we dare invoke to bless; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye; If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, A warmth within the breast would melt No, like a child in doubt and fear: But that blind clamor made me wise; And what I seem beheld again What is, and no man understands; That reach through nature, moulding men. HYMN OF TRUST. O Love Divine, that stooped to share Though long the weary way we tread, When drooping pleasure turns to grief, On Thee we fling our burdening woe, Living and dying, Thou art near! EXTRACT FROM "ABT VOGLER." O. W. Holmes. Robert Browning. Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable Name? Doubt that Thy power can fill the heart that Thy power expands? There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in heaven, a perfect round. All we have willed or hoped, or dreamed of good, shall exist; The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, Enough that He heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fulness of the days? How we withered or agonized! Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rush the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. Adelaide Anne Procter. Strive; yet I do not promise, The prize you dream of to-day, Will not fade when you think to grasp it, Wait; yet I do not tell you, The hour you long for now, Will not come with its radiance vanished, With a crown of starry light, An hour of joy you know not Pray; though the gift you ask for Yet pray, and with hopeful tears; But diviner, will come one day; VERY SLOW MOVEMENT. THE CLOSING SCENE. Within this sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills, T. B. Read. Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, Th' embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, On slumb'rous wings the vulture tried his flight, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew; Crew trice, and all was stiller than beforeSilent till some replying wanderer blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst, the jay within the elm's tall crest, Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, An early harvest and a plenteous year. Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast, All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow, through all the dreary gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; |