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XVII.
SOWING.

Sow ye beside all waters, "

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

Its warm and cheering ray,
For the rain of heaven descendeth
. When the sunbeams pass away,
Sow when the tempest lowers,

For calmer days will break,
Aud the seed, in darkness nourished,

A goodly plant may make.
Sow when the morning breaketh

In beauty o'er the land;
And when the evening falleth,

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,

And, tho' the tares abound, Like the willows by the waters

Will the scattered grain be found. Work while the daylight lasteth,

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, Where sunlight seldom reacheth,

Nor healthful streamlets flow; Where the withering air of poison

Is the young bud's earliest breath, And the wild, unwholesome blossom

Bears in its beauty-death.
The ground impure, o'ertrodden

By life's disfiguring years,
Tho'blood and guilt have stained it,
May yet be soft from tears.

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Watch not the clouds above thee;

Let the whirlwind round thee sweep; : . God may the seed-time give thee,

But another's hand may reap.
Have faith, tho' ne'er beholding

The seed burst from its tomb,
Thou knowest not which may perish,

Or what be spared to bloom.
Room on the narrowest ridges

The ripened grain will find,
That the Lord of the harvest coming, .

In the harvest sheaves may find.

C. A. Shipton

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XVIII.

MOMENTS.

I lie in a heavy trance,
With a world of dream without me,
Shapes of shadow dance,
In wavering bands, about me;
But, at times, some mystic things
Appear in this phantom lair,
That almost seem to me visitings
Of Truth known elsewhere;
The world is wide,-these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.

A prayer in an hour of pain,
Begun in an undertone,
Then lowered, as it would fain
Be heard by the heart alone;
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,
They may be nothing, but they are All.

A sense of an earnest Will
To help the lowly-living,
And a terrible heart-thrill
If we have not the power of giving;
An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
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!
These men had once their prime:
But now, succeeding generations hear
Beneath the shadow of each crumbling arch,
The music low and drear,
The muffled music of thy onward march,
Made up of piping winds and rustling leaves
And plashing rain-drops falling from slant eaves,
And all mysterious unconnected sounds
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 grassos
Hang like locks of dry dead hair ;
But there the keen wind ever sweeps and moans,
Working a passage through the mouldering stones.

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;
While thy step passes o'er the necks of Kings
And over common things,-
And into Earth's green orchards making way,
Halts, where the fruits of human hope abound,
And shakes their trembling ripeness to the ground.

Mrs. Norton.

XX.

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory’s plume,

As fading hues of Even ;
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb,

There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day!

From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy’s flash and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way,

There's nothing calm but Heaven.

T. Moore.

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