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May measure out the ocean deep-may What are ten thousand worlds compared with count

The sands, or the sun's rays-but God! for

Thee

Thee?

And what am I, then! Heaven's unnumbered host,

There is no weight nor measure. None can Though multiplied by myriads, and array'd

mount

Up to thy mysteries. Reason's bright spark, Though kindled by the light, in vain

would try

To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark;

In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance weighed Against Thy greatness-is a cypher brought Against infinity. What am I, then? Naught.

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so Naught!—but the effluence of Thy light di

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vine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, too;

Yes; in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine,
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly
Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high;
E'en to the throne of Thy divinity.

I am, O God, and surely thou must be!

Thou art! directing, guiding all thou art!

Direct my understanding, then, to Thee; Control my spirit, guide my wondering heart; Though but an atom 'midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and earth,

On the last verge of mortal being stand,. Close to the realm where angels have their birth,

Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, Just off the boundaries of the spirit land.

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth

from Thee;

And as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine around the silver snow, the pageantry Of Heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.

A million torches lighted by Thy hand

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; They own Thy power, accomplish thy command,

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light?

A glorious company of golden streams? Lamps of celestial ether burning bright?

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?

But Thou to them art as the moon to night.

Yes, as the drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in Thee is lost;

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DERZHAVIN.

SOMETIME.

OMETIME, when all life's lessons have

been learned,

And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned,—

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet

Will flash before us, out of life's dark night,

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans were right,

And how what seemed reproof was love most true.

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,

God's plans go on as best for you and me ; How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, Because his wisdom to the end could see.

And even as wise parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So, God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things because it seemeth good.

And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine,

And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life,

And stand within, and all God's workings

see,

We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key!

We find the wormwood, and rebel and But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! God's plans, like lilies, pure and white un

shrink,

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(Originally published in the Spectator (No. 465) and hence often attributed to Addison.)

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Long ago was I weary of voices

Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And, nightly to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;

While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice, nor sound,
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
ANDREW MARVELL.

LIGHT. (Extract.)

YOD said: "Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt His might,
And fled away;

Then startled seas, and mountains cold,
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,
And cried, ""Tis day, 'tis day!"
"Hail, holy light!" exclaimed
The thunderous cloud that flamed
O'er daisies white;

And lo! the rose, in crimson dressed,
Leaned sweetly on the lily's breast,
And blushing, murmured, "Light!"

Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;
Then floods of praise

Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in silent night, the moon
Poured forth her pensive lays.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

ALONE.

WALK down the valley of silenceDown the dim, noiseless valley, alone, And I hear not the fall of a footstep

Around me, save God's and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy

As hovers where angels have flown.

Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises

That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places

Where I found but the human and sin.

I walked in the world with the worldly, I craved what the world never gave, And I said, "In the world each ideal, That shines like a star on life's wave, Is wrecked on the shores of the real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave."

And still did I pine for the perfect,
And still found the false with the true;
I sought 'mid the human for heaven,

But caught a mere glimpse of its blue, And I wept when the clouds of the mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart tired of the human, And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar,

And I heard a voice call me; since then I walk down the valley of silence That lies far beyond mortal ken.

Do you ask what I found in the valley? 'Tis my trysting place with the divine, And I fall at the feet of the holy,

And above me a voice said, “Be mine," And there rose from the depths of my spirit An echo, "My heart shall be thine."

Do you ask how I live in the valley?
I weep and I dream and I pray.
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops
That fall on the roses in May,

And my prayer, like a perfume from censers.
Ascendeth to God night and day.

In the hush of the valley of silence

I dream all the songs that I sing, And the music floats down the dim valley Till each finds a word for each wing. That to hearts, like the dove of the deluge, A message of peace they may bring.

But far on the deep there are billows

That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the silence

That never shall float into speech, And I have had dreams in the valley Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen thoughts in the valley,
Ah, me, how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard,
They pass through the valley like angels,
Too pure for the touch of a word.

Do you ask me the place of the valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by care?
It lieth afar between mountains,

And God and his angels are there,
And one is the dark mount of sorrow,
And one the bright mountain of prayer.
ABRAM J. RYAN.
(Father Ryan.)

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"Twas here we met, and parted company. Why should their gain be such a grief to me? This scene of loss!

Thou heavy cross!

Dear Savior, take the burden off, I pray,
And show me Heaven is but-a little way.

These sombre robes, these saddened faces, all
The bitterness and pain of death recall.
Ah! let me turn my face where'er I may,
I see the traces of a sure decay;

And parting takes the marrow out of life.
Secure in bliss, we hold the golden chain
Which death, with scarce a warning, snaps in
twain,

And never more

Shall time restore

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The broken links. "Twas only yesterday
They vanished from our sight-a little way.

A little way! This sentence I repeat,
Hoping and longing to extract some sweet
To mingle with the bitter. From thy hand
I take the cup I cannot understand,
And in my weakness give myself to thee.
Although it seems so very, very far
To that dear home where my beloved are,
I know, I know

It is not so.

Oh! give me faith to feel it when I say

That they are gone-gone but a little way.

ANONYMOUS.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

READ softly-bow the head-
In reverent silence bow-

No passing-bell doth toll-
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shedOne by that paltry bedGreater than thou.

Beneath that Beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter-no crowds attendEnter-no guards defend This palace-gate.

That pavement damp and cold

No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands

Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound-
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed-again
That short deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

O change-0 wondrous change!-
Burst are the prison bars-
This moment there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!

O change-stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod!
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes-
Wakes with his God.

CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

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LIFE.

MADE a posie while the day ran by;
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band;

But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,

And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;

I took, without more thinking, in good part,
Time's gentle admonition,

Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
Yet sugaring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye

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HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

THE ELIXIR.

EA EACH me, my God and King, In all things thee to see, And what I do in anything To do it as for thee.

Not rudely, as a beast,

To run into an action, But still to make thee prepossessed, And give it his perfection.

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