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Bear it in meek patience!
Thou art not alone-
Though to all around thee
(All but Him) unknown.

Not in gloomy silence

Not in fever'd pride.
'Twas not thus He bore it
Who for sinners died.

Not in weak desponding-
Not because thou must.
But in meek reliance,

Childlike love and trust.
Willingly He raised it!
Sing thy Paschal Psalm,
Then thy lighter burthen,
Bear it, and be calm.
Inly in thy spirit—
Outwardly in life-

In the sick-room's silence,
In the anxious strife,
Bend thee to receive it!
He who knew it best
Can send with it blessing,
Strength, and even rest.

He, too, bore it daily.

Through these shadows dim. Wayward, well-loved spirit,

Bear it after Him.

MRS. HENRY FAUSSETT (ALESSIE BOND.) The Cairns of Iona. (G. Herbert, Dublin.)

Ан me, what unimagined calm

He giveth when 'tis needed most! To bitterest grief what precious balm! To grief what thoughts, in radiant host! MRS. HENRY FAUSSETT (ALESSIE BOND.) The Cairns of Iona. (G. Herbert, Dublin)

TO A FRIEND IN BEREAVEMENT. No comfort, nay, no comfort. Yet would I In Sorrow's cause with Sorrow intercede.

Burst not the great heart,-this is all I pleadAh, sentence it to suffer, not to die.

"Comfort?" If Jesus wept at Bethany,

-That doze and nap of Death-how may we bleed
Who watch the long sleep that is sleep indeed!
Pointing to Heaven I but remind you why
On earth you still must mourn. He who, being

bold

For life-to-come, is false to the past sweet
Of mortal life, hath killed the world above.
For why to live again if not to meet ?
And why to meet if not to meet in love?
And why in love if not in that dear love of old ?
SYDNEY DOBELL.
Poetical Works, Vol. II. (Smith, Elder, and Co.)

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.
DARK, dark the night, and tearfully I grope,
Lost in the Shadows, feeling for the way,
But cannot find it. Here's no help, no hope,
And God is very far off with His day.

Hush, hush, faint heart! why this may be thy chance,

When all is at the worst, to prove thy faith; Stand still, and see His great Deliverance,

And trust Him at the darkest unto death.

Ofttimes upon the last grim ridge of war

God takes His stand to aid us in the fight;

He watches while we roll the tide afar,

And, beaten back, is near us in His might.

We hear the arrows in the dark go by:

The cowering soul no longer soars or sings, Or it might know His presence the most nigh, Our darkness being the Shadow of His wings. No need of faith if all were visibly clear!

'Tis for the trial-time its help was given; Though clouds be thick, the Sun is just as near, That shines within and makes the heart its heaven.

Amidst our wildest night of saddest woes,

When Earth is desolate-Heaven dark with

doom,

Faith has its fire flash of the soul that shows The face of the Eternal through the gloom.

GERALD MASSEY. Poetical Works. (Routledge)

THIS hath He done, and shall we not adore Him?
This shall He do, and can we still despair?
Come let us quickly fling ourselves before Him,
Cast at His feet the burthen of our care.
Flash from our eyes the glow of our thanksgiving,
Glad and regretful, confident and calm,
Then thro' all life and what is after living
Thrill to the tireless music of a psalm.

Yea, thro' life, death, thro' sorrow and thro' sinning
He shall suffice me, for He hath sufficed:
Christ is the end, for Christ was the beginning,
Christ the beginning, for the end is Christ.
FREDERIC W. H. MYERS.

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VIII.

THE BLESSEDNESS OF
OF SUFFERING.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head!"

As you Like It, Act II., Sc. 1.

AFFLICTION.

O COME, and welcome! come, refine!
For Moors, if washed by thee, will shine.
Man blossoms at thy touch, and he,
When thou draw'st blood, is thy rose-tree.
Crosses make straight his crooked ways,
And clouds but cool his dog-star days;
Diseases too, when by thee blessed,
Are both restoratives and rest.

Flowers that in sunshine riot still,

Die, scorched and sapless. Though storms kill, The fall is fair even to desire

Where in their sweetness all expire.

O come, pour on! What calms can be

So fair as storms that appease thee?

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H. VAUGHAN.

Sacred Poems.

BUT night is still, and o'er the hills are stars. There is no strife in their mysterious rest. And Christ hath laid His finger on life's scars, And taught us now that sorrow can be blest. MRS. HENRY FAUSSETT (ALESSIE BOND). The Cairns of Iona. (G. Herbert, Dublin.)

THEN, welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joy three-parts pain!

Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! ROBERT BROWNING.

Dramatis Persona: Poetical Works.

(Smith, Elder, and Co.)

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COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave,
God's messenger sent down to thee. Do thou
With courtesy receive him: rise and bow :
And ere his shadow pass thy threshold crave
Permission first his heavenly feet to lave.
Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,
Or mar thy hospitality, no wave

Of mortal tumult to obliterate

The soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief should be
Like Joy, majestic, equable, sedate;
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free;
Strong to consume small troubles; to commend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to
the end.

AUBREY DE Vere.
Poems, Lyrical and Meditative. (K. Paul.)

Is the summons come for us to meet Him; He will stay,

And darken our sun;

He will stay

A desolate night, a weary day.

Since in that shadow our work is done, And in that shadow our crowns are won, Let us say still, while his bitter chalice Slowly into our hearts is poured,— "Blessed is he that cometh

In the name of the Lord!"

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. Legends and Lyrics. (G. Bell.)

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WHY are all fair things at their death the fairest ?
Beauty the beautifullest in decay?

Why doth rich sunset clothe each closing day

WHEN God afflicts thee, think He hews a rugged With ever-new apparelling the rarest ?

stone

Why are the sweetest melodies all born

Which must be shaped, or else aside as useless Of pain and sorrow? Mourneth not the dove thrown.

R. C. TRENCH. Poems. (Macmillan.)

GOD's dealings still are love; his chastenings are alone

Love now compelled to take an altered sterner tone. R. C. TRENCH. Poems. (Macmillan.)

WISH not, dear friends, my pain away,
Wish me a wise and thankful heart,
With GOD, in all my griefs, to stay,
Nor from His lov'd correction start.

The dearest offering He can crave

His portion in our souls to prove, What is it to the gift He gave,

The only Son of His dear love?

JOHN KEBLE. Christian Year. (Parker.)

WHO is the Angel that cometh?

Pain!

Let us arise and go forth to greet him ; Not in vain

In the green forest gloom an absent love?

Leaning her breast against that cruel thorn,
Doth not the nightingale, poor bird, complain
And integrate her uncontrollable woe
To such perfection, that to hear is pain?
Thus, Sorrow and Death,-alone realities-
Sweeten their ministration, and bestow
On troublous life a relish of the skies!

DAVID GRAY.
The Luggie. (J. Maclehose, Glasgow.)

[By kind permission of Messrs. James Maclehose and Sons.]

YET, Lord, in memory's fondest place

I shrine those seasons sad,

When looking up, I saw thy face

In kind austereness clad.

I would not miss one sigh or tear,
Heart-pang or throbbing brow;
Sweet was the chastisement severe,
And sweet its memory now.

Yes! let the fragrant scars abide,
Love-tokens in thy stead,

Faint shadows of the spear-pierced side,
And thorn-encompassed head.

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DEATH came to me and took me by the hand, What time the earth had girt her first with spring, And all the meadows put on blossoming. "Come forth," said he, "and see my flowers expand."

And forth we passed into the pleasant land.

And as we went, the small birds all did sing, And all the flowers praised Death in everything. Then, as I look'd, amazed, to see the brand And sign of that his dreadful sovranty,

Behold, a crown of holiest sorrowing
Flamed on the angel's brow; and unto me
Knee-bent for reverence, these words did ring

Most softly, "Lo! he ruleth all that be,
Seeing he sorrows more than anything."

JOHN PAYNE.

Intaglios. (Pickering, 1871.)

MEN thrive in conflict: soul refreshes soul,
And hearts in trial and suffering grow strong,
As he who wrestled with the Angel forc'd

No blessing till he strove the whole night long!
So must I strive. I have allotted work,
I have a given purpose in my life,—
Rest! I must snatch it at the cost of toil:
Peace! I must win it in the thick of strife.
WILLIAM SAWYER.
Ten Miles from Town. (W. Freeman.)

FROM fair to fairer; day by day
A more divine and loftier way!
Even such this blessèd pilgrim trod,
By sorrow lifted tow'rds her God.
W. WORDSWORTH.

LIFE, I repeat, is energy of love,
Divine or human, exercised in pain,
In strife, and tribulation, and ordain'd,
If so approved and sanctified, to pass,
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.
W. WORDSWORTH.

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DARKNESS is easier far to bear

Than that unrestful gloom,

Where the light snows in, and vaguely haunts
The shapes and the things in the room.

One of those darknesses was this,
In which God loves to dwell,
One of those restful silences
In which He is audible.

Slowly light came, the thinnest dawn,
Not sunshine, to our night,
A new, more spiritual thing,

An advent of pure light:

Perhaps not light; rather the soul

Which just then came to see,

And saw through its world-darkened life,
And saw eternity.

O God! it was a time divine,

Rich epoch of calm grace,

A pressing of our hearts to Thine

In mystical embrace.

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