Where the dew of heaven may fall; Ye shall reap if ye be not weary, For the Spirit breathes o'er all. Sow, tho' the thorns may wound thee, One wore the thorns for thee; And tho' the cold world scorn thee, Patient and hopeful be. Sow ye beside all waters, With a blessing and a prayer; Name Him whose hand upholds thee, And sow thou everywhere. Sow when the sunlight sheddeth Sow when the tempest lowers, In beauty o'er the land; Withhold not thou thine hand. Sow tho' the rock repel thee, In its cold and sterile pride; Some cleft there may be riven, Where the little seed may hide. Fear not, for some will flourish, Will the scattered grain be found. Ere the shades of night come on; Ere the Lord of the vineyard cometh, And the labourers' work is done. Sow by the wayside gladly, In the damp, dark caverns low, Tho' blood and guilt have stained it, God Watch not the clouds above thee; That the Lord of the harvest coming, C. A. Shipton XVIII. MOMENTS. I lie in a heavy trance, With a world of dream without me, In wavering bands, about me; The world is wide,-these things are small, A prayer in an hour of pain, A throb, when the soul is entered By a light that is lit above, Where the God of nature has centered The Beauty of Love.— -The world is wide,-these things are small, A sense of an earnest Will And a terrible heart-thrill If we have not the power of giving; But whose echo is endless: The world is wide,-these things are small, They may be nothing, but they are All. Lord Houghton, XIX. Oh! Time, oh! ever conquering Time! The muffled music of thy onward march, With which the place abounds. The walls where hung the warriors' shining casques Are green with moss and mould; The blindworm coils where Queens have slept nor asks For shelter from the cold. The brambles let no footstep pass By that rent in the broken stair, Where the pale tufts of the windle-strae grass Hang like locks of dry dead hair; But there the keen wind ever sweeps and moans, Oh! Time, oh! ever conquering Time! I know that wild wind's chime Which, like a passing bell Or distant knell Speaks to man's heart of Death and of Decay; And into Earth's green orchards making way, Mrs. Norton. XX. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe, There's nothing true but Heaven! And false the light on Glory's plume, And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom, Poor wanderers of a stormy day! There's nothing calm but Heaven. T. Moore. |