"Lo, it is I, be not afraid!

In many climes, without avail,

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold it is here, this cup which thou

Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now;
This crust is my body broken for thee,
This water his blood that died on the tree;
The holy supper is kept, indeed,

In whatso we share with another's need;
Not what we give, but what we share,-
For the gift without the giver is bare ;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,—
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.”

FROM "MY LOVE."

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone, or despise : For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace,

Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.

She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart entwines and clings,
And patiently she folds her wings

To tread the humble paths of earth.

Samuel Longfellow.

1819.

LOOKING UNTO GOD.

"God's hand in all things, and all things in God's

hand."

I look to Thee in every need,

And never look in vain ;

I feel Thy touch, Eternal Love,
And all is well again;

The thought of Thee is mightier far
Than sin and pain and sorrow are.

Discouraged in the work of life,
Disheartened by its load,
Shamed by its failures or its fears,
I sink beside the road;-

But let me only think of Thee,

And then new heart springs up in me.

Thy calmness bends serene above,

My restlessness to still;

Around me flows Thy quickening life

To nerve my faltering will;
Thy presence fills my solitude,
Thy providence turns all to good.

Embosomed deep in Thy dear love,
Held in Thy law, I stand;
Thy hand in all things I behold,
And all things in Thy hand;
Thou leadest me by unsought ways,
And turn'st my mourning into praise.

Unknown.

POEMS UNWRITTEN.

There are poems unwritten and songs unsung, Sweeter than any that ever were heard— Poems that wait for an angel tongue,

Songs that but long for a paradise bird.
Poems that ripple through lowliest lives,
Poems unnoted and hidden away

Down in the soul where the beautiful thrives,
Sweetly as flowers in the airs of the May.
Poems that only the angels above us,

Looking down deep in our hearts may behold,
Felt, though unseen, by the beings who love us,
Written on lives as in letters of gold.
Sing to my soul the sweet song that thou livest!
Read me the poem that never was penned-
The wonderful idyl of life that thou givest
Fresh from thy spirit, oh, beautiful friend!

Josiah Gilbert Holland.
1819-1881.

GRADATIM.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true :
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common clod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under feet ;
By what we have mastered of good and gain,
By the pride deposed and passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light; But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things,

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!

We may borrow the wings to find the way— We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and

pray,

But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

THE HYMN.

From "Bitter-Sweet."

For summer's bloom and autumn's blight, For bending wheat and blasted maize, For health and sickness, Lord of light, And Lord of darkness, hear our praise!

We trace to Thee our joys and woes,-
To Thee of causes still the cause,
We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows;
We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws.

We bring no sorrows to Thy throne;
We come to Thee with no complaint.

In providence Thy will is done,
And that is sacred to the saint.

Here, on this blest Thanksgiving night,
We raise to Thee our grateful voice;
For what thou doest, Lord, is right;

And, thus believing, we rejoice.