Hands full of blessings, lavished far and wide, We o'er all sorrow would have raised thee up, Crowned with life's choicest blossoms night and morn; God made thee drink of his beloved's cup, And crowned thee with the Master's crown of thorn. Looking from thee to him, once wounded sore, Till now, again! we gaze on thee above, Master, like thee, and with thee in thy light! Charles Lowe. "If ye love me," Jesus said, Just before his spirit sped, As we loved our brother here, Thanks to God for life so pure, Elizabeth Charles. Thanks for faith that feared no cross, Thanks for love so deep and strong, Just because it loved so well. Servants of God!- -or sons One of his little ones lost — See! In the rocks of the world A feeble, wavering line. Where are they tending? — A God Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels appear, Radiant with ardor divine. Languor is not in your heart, Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Ye move through the ranks, recall Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Strengthen the wavering line, Matthew Arnold. PART IV. SUFFERING AND REST. The Sleep. "He giveth His beloved sleep." Ps. cxxvii: 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are For gift or grace, surpassing this "He giveth his beloved, sleep"? What would we give to our beloved? The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, "He giveth his beloved, sleep." What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. "He giveth his beloved, sleep." 'Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when "He giveth his beloved, sleep." O earth, so full of dreary noises! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! His dews drop mutely on the hill, For me, my heart that erst did go That sees through tears the mummers leap, Who "giveth his beloved, sleep!" And friends, dear friends, — when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall "He giveth his beloved, sleep." E. B. Browning. Epitaph on an Old Maid. Rest, gentle traveller, on life's toilsome way; No chosen spot of earth she called her own; |