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May measure out the ocean deep-may What are ten thousand worlds compared with count
Thee ? The sands, or the sun's rays—but God! for And what am I, then! Heaven's unnumberThee
ed host, There is no weight nor measure. None can Though multiplied by myriads, and array'd mo
In all the glory of sublimest thought, Up to thy mysteries. Reason's bright spark, Is but an atom in the balance weighed Though kindled by the light, in vain Against Thy greatness—is a cypher brought would try
Against infinity. What am I, then? Naught. To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark; And thought is lost ere thought can soar so Naught!—but the effluence of Thy light dihigh,
vine, Even like past moments in eternity.
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
Yes; in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine, First chaos, then existence-Lord, on Thee
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Eternity had its foundation; all
Naught! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly Spring forth from Thee-of light, joy, har Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee mony,
I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high; Sole origin—all life, all beauty there;
E’en to the throne of Thy divinity. Thy word created all, and doth create;
I am, O God, and surely thou must be! Thy splendor fills all space with day divine; Thou art, and wast, and shall be glorious, Thou art! directing, guiding all thou art! great!
Direct my understanding, then, to Thee; Life-giving, life-sustaining potentate.
Control my spirit, guide my wondering heart;
Though but an atom ’midst immensity, Thy chains the unmeasured universe sur
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! round,
I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and
earth, Upheld by Thee-by Thee inspired with breath!
On the last verge of mortal being stand, Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
Close to the realm where angels have their
birth, 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 THE RUSSIAN OP DERZHAVIN. from Thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays
SOMETIME. Shine around the silver snow, the pageantry
And sun and stars forevermore have set,
The things which our weak judgments here A million torches lighted by Thy hand
have spurned,Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; The things o'er which we grieved with They own Thy power, accomplish thy com
lashes wet mand,
Will flash before us, out of life's dark night, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; What shall we call them? Piles of crystal And we shall see how all God's plans were light?
right, A glorious company of golden streams?
And how what seemed reproof was love Lamps of celestial ether burning bright ?
most true. Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
And we shall see how, while we frown and But Thou to them art as the moon to night. sigh,
God's plans go on as best for you and me; Yes, as the drop of water in the sea,
How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, All this magnificence in Thee is lost;
Because his wisdom to the end could see.
Of Heaven's bright army glittersain arthy SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have
And even as wise parents disallow
And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, Conceals the faircst boon his love can send. So, God, perhaps, is keeping from us now If we could push ajar the gates of life, Life's sweetest things because it seemeth And stand within, and all God's workings good.
We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And if, sometimes, commingled with life's And for each mystery could find a key!
wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! shrink,
God's plans, like lilies, pure and white unBe sure a wiser hand than yours or mine
fold, Pours out this portion for our lips to drink. We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart; And if some friend we love is lying low,
Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. Where human kisses cannot reach his face, And if, through patient toil, we reach the land 0, do not blame the loving Father so,
Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may But wear your sorrow with obedient grace! rest,
When we shall clearly know and understand, And you shall shortly know that lengthened I think that we will say, “God knew the breath
best!" Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend,
MAY RILEY SMITH.
ODE TO THE CREATION. (Originally published in the Spectator (No. 465) and hence often attributed to Addison.) THE spacious firmament on high,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, With all the blue ethereal sky,
Their great Original proclaim;
Th'unwearied sun, from day to day,
And cried, “'Tis day, 'tis day !"
O'er daisies white;
And blushing, murmured, “Light!"
Then floods of praise
Down 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 Lovers where angels have flown.
Long ago was I weary of voices
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 d vine, 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.
That fall on the roses in May,
Ascendeth to God night and day.
In the hush of the valley of silence
I dream all the songs that I sing,
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.
ABRAM J. RYAN.
ONLY A LITTLE WAY. LITTLE way-I know it is not far,
'Twas here we met, and parted company. Why should their gain be such a grief to me?
This scene of loss !
Thou heavy cross!
These sombre robes, these saddened faces, all
And never more
Shall time restore
A little way! This sentence I repeat,
I know, I know
It is not so.
THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.
TEREA Po softly how the head
In reverent silence bow-
Is passing now.
To that dear home where my beloved are,
Plumed for their flight,
And vanished quite.
Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
Greater than thou.
A little way-at times they seem so near,
Beneath that Beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
No smiling courtiers tread;
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.
An infant wail alone;
The parting groan.
Burst are the prison bars—
Beyond the stars!
There lies the soulless clod !
CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
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
spent, Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures. I follow straight without complaints or grief, Since if my scent be good, I care not if It be as short as yours.
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 'HEN, marshalled on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone, of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
Not rudely, as a beast,
To run into an action, But still to make thee prepossessed,
And give it his perfection.