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God keeps his holy mysteries

Just on the outside of man's dream.
In diapason slow, we think
To hear their pinions rise and sink,
While they float pure beneath his eyes,

Like swans adown a stream.
Things nameless ! which, in passing so,

Do stroke us with a subtle grace.
We say, “Who passes ??—they are dumb,
We cannot see them go or come.
Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow

Upon a blind man's face.
Yet, touching so, they draw above

Our common thoughts to Heaven's unknown;
Our daily joy and pain advance
To a divine significance,-
Our human love-0 mortal love,

That light is not its own!
And sometimes horror, chills our blood

To be so near such mystic Things,
And we wrap round us, for defence,
Our purple manners, moods of sense
As angels, from the face of God,

Stand hidden in their wings.

And sometimes, through life's heavy swound

We grope for them !-with strangled breath We stretch our hands abroad and try To reach them in our agony,— And widen, so, the broad life-wound Which soon is large enough for death.

Mrs. Browning,



We have left the world behind

We have lost the beaten track,
And the hum of the city upon the wind

We have only to guide us back.

Oh! this is indeed to live,

To be free to dream and to dare When all that the busy world can give,

Is a murmur on the air.

In the wood where the hyacinths grow;

And the earth is as blue as the sky, We wander to-day till the sun sinks low,

And the rosy shadows die;

Till the day, with its soul of flame,

Till the beautiful day shall die;
To return, but not to return the same,

With one cloud in the changing sky.

So but once we may live these hours,

So reckless and radiant and gay; But once may gather these wild-wood flowers,

That wither ere close of day.

For the bright spring moments die,

As the blossoms perish and fade;
And the careless jest and the low reply,

Are past with the light and shade.

And through life, ah! never again

Will the same brief hour return, With alternate throb of joy and pain,

In the hearts that beat and burn.

But who leaves the world behind,

To go from the beaten track,
Should hear low voices upon the wind,

That sweetly call him back :

That breathe from the wild-wood flowers

That cry in the murmuring stream, “This mortal and earnest life of ours,

Was given us not to dream;

“To question its depth and truth,

Or to fear its darkening close ;
But to do great deeds in our golden youth,

And to scorn the slave's repose :

“To scorn the slave, who lies,

And basks in the summer sun,
Who leaves to lament him when he dies,

On the wide world's face, not one.

“Then up from amongst the flowers,

The path is wide and free,
And earth claims of man his noblest powers,

To conquer her misery.”

Miss Braddon. Orat qui laborat.

Pause not to dream of the future before us :
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us,
Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus,

Unintermitting goes up into heaven!
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing:
Never the little seed stops in its growing:
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

“ Labour is worship!” the robin is singing :
“Labour is worship!" the wild bee is ringing :
Listen ! that eloquent music upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out nature’s great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower ; From the small insect the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labour is life !—'tis the still water faileth ;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth,

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labour is glory! the flying cloud lightens ;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys would'st thou keep them in tune!

Labour is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us;
Rest from sin promptings that ever entreat us ;

Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.
Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow,
Work—thou shalt ride over care's coming billow,
Lie not down wearied 'neath woe’s weeping willow,

Work with a stout heart and resolute will.

Labour is health-lo! the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!
How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping,

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides;
Labour is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth,
Rich the Queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth,
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth,

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not though shame, sin and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee; Look to yon blue heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod, Work—for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labour—all labour is noble and holy,

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

F. S. Osgood.

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