I will not hide from them,

When Thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath;

But bow with leafy stem,

And strengthened follow on Thy chosen path.

Yes Thou wilt visit me;

Nor plant nor tree Thine eye delights so well,
As when, from sin set free,

My spirit loves with Thine in peace to dwell.

WHOM BUT THEE.

JONES VERY.

FRO

ROM past regret and present faithlessness From the deep shadow of foreseen distress And from the nameless weariness that grows As life's long day seems wearing to its close

Thou Life within my life, than self more near!
Thou veiled Presence infinitely clear!
From all illusive shows of sense I flee

To find my centre and my rest in Thee.

Below all depths Thy saving mercy lies,

Through thickest glooms I see Thy light arise, Above the highest heavens Thou art not found More surely than within this earthly round.

Take part with me against these doubts that rise
And seek to throne Thee far in distant skies!
Take part with me against this self that dares
Assume the burden of these sins and cares !

How can I call Thee who art always here

How shall I praise Thee who art still most dear What may I give Thee save what Thou hast given And whom but Thee have I in earth or heaven?

ELIZA SCUDDER

ch

LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

Thou me on!

THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD.

The night is dark, and I am far from home
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene, one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;

And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, 1833

O

QUI LABORAT, ORAT.

ONLY Source of all our light and life, Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel,

But whom the hours of mortal moral strife
Alone aright reveal!

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought,
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine;
Chastised each rebel self-encentred thought,
My will adoreth Thine.

With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart; Nor seek to see for what of earthly kind

Can see Thee as Thou art ? ·

If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold,

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, It dare not dare the dread communion hold In ways unworthy Thee;

O not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive,
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare;
And if in work its life it seem to live,

Shalt make that work be prayer.

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall

part,

And, scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes In recognition start.

But, as Thou willest, give or e'en forbear
The beatific supersensual sight,
So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer
Approach Thee morn and night.

ARTHUR H. CLOUGH.

FOR DIVINE STRENGTH.

FATHER, in thy mysterious presence kneeling,

Fain would our souls feel all thy kindling love; For we are weak and need some deep revealing

Of trust and strength and calmness from above.

Lord, we have wandered forth through doubt and sorrow,

And thou hast made each step an onward one; And we will ever trust each unknown morrow — Thou wilt sustain us till its work is done.

In the heart's depths a peace serene and holy
Abides; and when pain seems to have her will,
Or we despair, oh! may that peace rise slowly,
Stronger than agony, and we be still.

Now, Father-now, in thy dear presence kneeling, Our spirits yearn to feel thy kindling love;

Now make us strong· we need thy deep revealing Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

A BIRTH-DAY PRAYER.

ART Thou the Life?

To Thee, then, do I owe each beat and breath, And wait Thy ordering of the hour of death, In peace or strife.

Art Thou the Light?

To Thee, then, in the sunshine or the cloud,
Or in my chamber lone or in the crowd,
I lift my sight.

Art Thou the Truth?

To Thee, then, loved and craved and sought of yore, I consecrate my manhood o'er and o'er,

As once my youth.

Art Thou the Strong?

To Thee, then, though the air is thick with night, I trust the seeming-unprotected Right,

And leave the Wrong.

Art Thou the Wise?

To Thee, then, do I bring each useless care,
And bid my soul unsay her idle prayer,

And hush her cries.

Art Thou the Good?

To Thee, then, with a thirsting heart I turn,
And stand, and at Thy fountain hold my urn
As aye I stood.