His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His works in vain ;

God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

WINTER.

From "The Task," Book IV.

Oh winter! ruler of the inverted year,

Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other

snows

Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along its slippery way,

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,

And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun
A prisoner in the yet undawning east,

Shortening his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay
Down to the rosy west; but kindly still
Compensating his loss with added hours
Of social converse and instructive ease,

And gathering, at short notice, in one group
The family dispersed, and fixing thought
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.

Madame Jeanne Marie Bouvier de la Dotbe Guyon.

1648-1717.

THE SOUL THAT LOVES GOD FINDS HIM

EVERYWHERE.

O Thou, by long experience tried,
Near whom no grief can long abide;
My Love! how full of sweet content
I pass my years of banishment !

All scenes alike engaging prove
To souls impressed with sacred Love!
Where'er they dwell, they dwell in Thee;

In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.

To me remains nor place nor time;
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care
On any shore, since God is there.

While place we seek, or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none;
But with a God to guide our way,
'T is equal joy to go or stay.

Could I be cast where Thou art not,
That were indeed a dreadful lot;
But regions none remote I call,
Secure of finding God in all.

My country, Lord, art Thou alone;
Nor other can I claim or own ;

The point where all my wishes meet;
My Law, my Love; life's only sweet!

I hold by nothing here below;
Appoint my journey, and I go;

Though pierced by scorn, oppressed by pride, I feel Thee good-feel nought beside.

No frowns of men can hurtful prove
To souls on fire with heavenly Love;
Though men and devils both condemn,
No gloomy days arise from them.

Ah then! to His embrace repair ;
My soul, thou art no stranger there;
There Love divine shall be thy guard,
And peace and safety thy reward.

Translated by WM. COWPER.

Anna L. Barbauld.

1743-1825.

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born;

Ye shall not dim the light that streams
From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough

To feel your harsh control;

Ye shall not violate, this day,

The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die ;

And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

LIFE.

Life! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.

*

*

Life! we 've been long together

*

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'T is hard to part when friends are dear,

Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not good-night,-but in some brighter clime Bid me good-morning.

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies!
When sinks a righteous soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes,
How gently heaves the expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away,

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day,

So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fanned by some angel's purple wing ;-
Where is, O grave! thy victory now?
And where, insidious death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,

Where light and shade alternate dwell! How bright the unchanging morn appears ;Farewell, inconstant world, farewell!

Its duty done,—as sinks the clay,
Light from its load the spirit flies;
While heaven and earth combine to say,
"" Sweet is the scene when virtue dies!"