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My Soul And I.

Folly and fear are sisters twain:

One closing her eyes,
The other peopling the dark inane

With spectral lies.

Know well, my soul, God's hand controls

Whate'er thou fearest, Round him in calmest music rolls

Whate'er thou hearest.

What to thee is shadow to Him is day,

And the end He knoweth, And not on a blind and aimless way

The spirit goeth.

Man sees no future—a phantom show

Is alone before him;
Past time is dead and the grasses grow

And flowers bloom o'er him.

Nothing before him, nothing behind:

We walk in faith
Over the seeming void, and find

The rock beneath.

The Present—the Present, is all thou hast

For thy sure possessing;
Like the patriarch's angel hold him fast

Till he gives his blessing.

Why fear the night? why shrink from Death,

That phantom wan? There is nothing in Heaven or earth beneath

Save God and man.

My Soul And I.

Peopling Life's shadows we turn from Him

And from one another!
All is spectral and vague and dim

Save God and our brother!

Oh, restless spirit 1 wherefore strain

Beyond thy sphere ?—
Heaven and hell—with their joy and pain,

Are now and here.

Back to thyself is measured well

All thou hast given:
Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell,

His bliss thy heaven.

In life, in death, in dark and light

Thou art in God's care;
Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep night,

And He is there!

All which is real now remaineth

And fadeth never;
The hand which upholds it now, sustaineth

The soul forever.

Leaning on Him make with reverent meekness

His own thy will, And with strength from Him shall thy utter weakness

Life's task fulfil.

And that cloud itself, which now before thee

Lies dark in view.
Shall with beams of light from the inner glory

Be stricken through.

My Soul And I.

307

And like meadow midst through Autumn's dawn

Uprolling thin,
Its thickest fold when about thee drawn

Let sunlight in.

Then of what is to be and of what is done

Why queriest thou?
The past and the time to be are one,

And both are Now!

John Or. Whittier.

Archbishop Leighton thought," that in this world, the Christian's white robe would be very likely to be entangled and defiled, if he wore it too flowingly. Our only, safest way," said he, "is to gird up our affections wholly. When we come to the place of our rest, we may wear our long white robes in full length without disturbance : for no unclean thing is there : yea, the streets of that new Jerusalem are paved with gold."

About the river of life there is a wintry wind though heavenly sunshine: the Iris colours its agitation, the frost fixes upon its repose. Let us beware that our rest become not the rest of stones, which, so long as they are torrent tossed, and thunder stricken, maintain their majesty: but when the stream is silent, and the storm passed, suffer the grass to cover them, and the lichen to feed on them.

Ruskin.

u And their nobles have sent their little ones to the waters: they came to the pits and found no water; they returned with their vessels empty." Jer xiv. 3.

When the youthful fever of the soul,

Is awakened in thee first,
And thou goest, like Judah's children forth

To slake thy burning thirst;

And when dry and wasted like the springs

Sought by that little band,
Before thee, in their emptiness

Life's broken cisterns stand;

When the golden fruits that tempted thee,

Turn to ashes on the taste,
And thine early visions fade and pass,

Like the mirage of the waste;

When faith darkens, and hopes vanish,

In the shade of coming years,
And the urn thou barest is empty,

Or o'erflowing with thy tears;

Though the transient springs have failed thee,
Though the founts of youth are dried,

Wilt thou among the mouldering stones
In weariness abide?

Wilt thou sit among the ruins,

With all words of cheer unspoken,
Till the silver cord is loosened,

Till the golden bowl is broken?

The Wasted Fountains.

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Up and onward! toward the East

Green oases thou shalt find,—
Streams that rise from higher sources,

Than the pools thou leavest behind.

Life has import more inspiring

Than the fancies of thy youth;
It has hopes as high as Heaven,

It has labour, it has truth.

It has wrongs that may be righted,

Noble deeds that may be done;
Its great battles are unfought,

Its great triumphs are unwon.

There is rising from its troubled depths,

A low, unceasing moan;
There are aching, there are breaking,

Other hearts beside thine own.

From strong limbs that should be chainless,

There are fetters to unbind:
There are words to raise the fallen,

There is light to give the blind;

There are crushed and broken spirits,

That electric thoughts may thrill;
Lofty dreams to be embodied,

By the might of one strong will.

A. C. Lynch.

Soike, by a mistake, call a person absent minded, when the mind shuts the door, pulls in the latch-string, and is wholly at home.

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