Mr Faversham's new year's guest, by the author of 'Ellen Clinton'.

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Page 175 - There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of th' everlasting chime ; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.
Page 237 - Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
Page 211 - It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log, at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day, Is fairer far, in May, Although it fall, and die that night; It was the plant, and flower of light. In small proportions, we just beauties see: And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Page 195 - Rise! for the day is passing, And you lie dreaming on; The others have buckled their armour, And forth to the fight are gone: A place in the ranks awaits you, Each man has some part to play; The Past and the Future are nothing, In the face of the stern To-day.
Page 159 - There are briars besetting every path That call for patient care ; There is a cross in every lot, And an earnest need for prayer ; But a lowly heart that leans on Thee Is happy anywhere. In a service which thy will appoints, There are no bonds for me ; For my inmost heart is taught ' the truth ' That makes thy children ' free ;' And a life of self-renouncing love Is a life of liberty.
Page 134 - Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief ? Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief ? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.
Page 60 - Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.
Page 141 - Rest, weary heart ! From all thy silent griefs and secret pain, Thy profitless regrets and longings vain; Wisdom and love have ordered all the past, All shall be blessedness and light at last; Cast off the cares that have so long opprest, — Rest, sweetly rest ! Rest, weary head ! Lie down to slumber in the peaceful tomb, Light from above has broken through its gloom.
Page 255 - I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit, he taketh away ; and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit.
Page 21 - There is, in every human heart, Some not completely barren part, Where seeds of love and truth might grow, And flowers of generous virtue blow ; To plant, to watch, to water there, — This be our duty — be our care...

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