barriett Mulford Lotbrop. (MARGARET SIDNEY.) 1844. THE LITTLE BROWN SEED. "I'm of no use," said a little brown seed; I'm little and brown, with nobody's love, So she rolled, and she rolled very quickly away, The rain came in torrents, and fell upon her And she felt herself sinking in darkness beneath, Where never an eye could see her sad fate, The little brown seed lay still in the earth, Till at last with an effort she roused up, and cried, "I'll begin by trying. "I'll try and stop fretting, for 't is of no use, And if I've nobody's love, I'll look up in hope, for there is One who will see, The dear God above.” Oh, would you believe it! straightway the dark ground Began to tremble and shake, And make way for the little seed, hopeful now, Her upward way to take ! Up, up she went, till at last she saw Oh, the beautiful spirit had found release, The brightness and beauty that grew upon her, I cannot begin to speak; Crowned with flowers she stood, beloved by all, So lovely, yet so meek. Sarah Chauncey Woolsey. (SUSAN COOLIDGE.) ABOUT 1845. WHEN. If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks would bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through, What should I do? I do not think that I should shrink or falter, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter But rise and move and love and smile and pray And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Which harkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping How should I fear? And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still, I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All the night long; and when the morning splendor Flushed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile-could calmly say, "It is His day." But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder On which my life was writ, and I with wonder To a long century's end its mystic clew, What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master, Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, The road, although so very long it be, Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me, Thro' thorns, thro' flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee Or heavens serene, Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray, I may not know; my God, no hand revealeth Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, To all my questioning thought, the time to tell; Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Through a long century's ripening fruition Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait Unknown. CHRIST WILL GATHER HIS OWN. Christ will gather His own To the place where He is gone, Day by day the voice saith "Come, This dear soul its summons there. Had He ask'd us, well we know But the Lord doth naught amiss, Many a heart no longer here, Thou will be our All in All. |