God of my life, as God of all beside,
This lovely wonder, which thy hand hath wrought,
Quickens in thought the mercies manifold Which thy great love into my soul hath brought.
For I have lain, full oft, as hot and dry
As ever earth in summer's fiercest hour; And the long days, slow creeping over me, Brought me no tokens of thy gracious power.
Then, at thy word, down fell thy spirit rain ; I felt its coolness all my being through; Made fresh and clean and joyous every whit,
I heard the whisper, "I make all things new."
But mine, alas ! was not the holy faith
The parched earth felt through all her thirsty hours;
I was in fear that never more again
Should I be quickened by the heavenly powers.
So shall it be no more; but, though I lie For many days as one thou dost forget, Recalling this glad hour, my heart shall say,
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I know 'twill come; He never failed me yet."
JOHN W. CHADWICK
THE FLY'S LECTURE.
NCE on a time, when tempted to repine, In yon green nook I nursed a sullen theme, A fly lit near me, lovelier than a dream,
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With burnished plates of sight, and pennons fine: His wondrous beauty struck and fixt my view, As, ere he mingled with the shades of eve, With silent feet he trod the honey-dew,
In that lone spot, where I had come to grieve: And still, whene'er the hour of sorrow brings, Once more, the humors and the doubts of grief, In my mind's eye, from that moist forest-leaf Once more I see the glorious insect rise! My faith is lifted on two gauzy wings, And served with light by two metallic eyes.
CHARLES TURNER
LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked
clown,
Of thee from the hill-top looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height,
Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; He sings the song, but it pleases not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore,
With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar
Then I said, "I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath ;
Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole ; I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
"His compassions fail not. They are new every morning."
HUES of the rich unfolding morn, That, ere the glorious sun be born, By some soft touch invisible Around his path are taught to swell;
Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay, That dancest forth at opening day, And brushing by with joyous wing, Wakenest each little leaf to sing ;
Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, By which deep grove and tangled stream Pay, for soft rains in season given, Their tribute to the genial heaven;
Why waste your treasures of delight Upon our thankless, joyless sight; Who day by day to sin awake, Seldom of Heaven and you partake?
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