9:23

Used by permission of OLIVER DITSON & Co.

O Silent Land to which we move! Enough, if there alone be Love, And mortal need can ne'er outgrow What it is waiting to bestow!

F. G. Whittier.

Autumn, 43.

159. Footsteps of angels. Vesper, 50.
WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered,
To a holy, calm, delight;
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Come my messengers divine,
Take the vacant chair beside me,
Lay a gentle hand in mine.
Uttered not, yet comprehended
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer;
Soft rebuke, in blessing ended,

Breathing from the lips of air.
O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

160.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

CLEAR in memory's silent reaches
Lie the pastures I have seen,
Greener than the sun-lit spaces
Where the May has flung her green:
Needs no sun and needs no star-light

To illume these fields of mine,
For the glory of dead faces

Is the sun, the stars, that shine. Yet, O well I can remember,

Once I called my pastures, Pain; And the waters were a torrent

Sweeping through my life amain! Now I call them Peace and Stillness, Brightness of all Happy Thought, Where I linger for a blessing

From my faces that are naught. Naught? I fear not! If the Power Maketh thus his pastures green, Maketh thus his quiet waters,

Out of waste his heavens serene, I can trust the mighty Shepherd Loseth none he ever led: Somewhere yet a greeting waits me On the faces of my dead!

162.

IT singeth low in every heart,

We hear it each and all,

A song of those who answer not,
However we may call;

They throng the silence of the breast;
We see them as of yore,-

The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,
Who walk with us no more.

More home-like seems the vast unknown,
Since they have entered there;
To follow them were not so hard,
Wherever they may fare.
They cannot be where God is not,
On any sea or shore;
Whate'er betides, thy love abides,
Our God, for evermore!

J. W. CHADWICK.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest angel gently comes,-
Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling balm.
There's quiet in that angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance;
And in his tenderest love, our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.
He walks with us, that angel kind,
And gently whispers "Be resigned!
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell,
The dear Lord ordereth all things well."
F. G. Whittier.

Fine.

D. C.

163.

A song of trust.

O LOVE Divine, of all that is

Lloyd, 24.

The sweetest still and best!
Fain would I come and rest to-day
Upon thy tender breast;

And yet the spirit in my heart

Says, "Wherefore should I pray

That thou shouldst seek me with thy love,
Since thou dost seek alway?"

I pray not, then, because I would,—
I pray because I must;

There is no meaning in my prayer
But thankfulness and trust.

And thou wilt hear the thought I mean,
And not the words I say;

Wilt hear the thanks among the words That only seem to pray.

I would not have thee otherwise

Than what thou still must be;
Yea, thou art God, and what thou art
Is ever best for me.

And so, for all my sighs, my heart
Doth sing itself to rest,

O Love Divine, most far and near,
Upon thy tender breast.

166. The thought of God. Marlow, 27.
THE thought of God. the thought of thee
Who liest in my heart,
And yet beyond imagined space

Outstretched and present art:-
It is a thought which ever makes

Life's sweetest smiles from tears;
And is a daybreak to our hopes,
A sunset to our fears.
It is not of his wondrous works,
Nor even that he is;
Words fail it,-but it is a thought
That by itself is bliss.

9

1615.

ONE thought I have, my ample creed,

So deep it is and broad,

And equal to my every need,

It is the thought of God.

Each morn unfolds some fresh surprise, I feast at Life's full board;

And rising in my inner skies

Shines forth the thought of God.

At night my gladness is my prayer;
I drop my daily load,
And every care is pillowed there
Upon the thought of God.

I ask not far before to see,
But take in trust my road;
Life, death, and immortality
Are in my thought of God.

To this their secret strength they owed
The martyr's path who trod;
The fountains of their patience flowed
From out their thought of God.
Be still the light upon my way,
My pilgrim staff and rod,

My rest by night, my strength by day,
O blessed thought of God!

What is our being but a cry,
A restless longing still,
Which thou alone canst satisfy,
Alone thy fullness fill!

Thrice blessed be the holy souls
That lead the way to thee,
That burn upon the martyr-rolls
'And lists of prophecy.

And sweet it is to tread the ground
O'er which their faith hath trod;
But sweeter far, when thou art found,
The soul's own sense of God!

The thought of thee all sorrow calms;
Our anxious burdens fall;

His crosses turn to triumph-palms
Who finds in God his all!

ONE gift, my God, I seek,-
To know thee always near;
To feel thy hand, to see thy face,
Thy blessed voice to hear.
Where'er I go, my God,
O, let me find thee there;
Where'er I stay, stay thou with me,
A presence everywhere.

And if thou bringest peace,
Or if thou bringest pain,

But come thyself with all that comes,
And all shall go for gain.

Long listening to thy words,
My voice shall catch thy tone,

And, locked in thine, my hand shall grow
All loving like thine own.

Naomi, 28.

170

Now I have learned to trust thy love And cast my care on thee!

FOREVER with the Lord!

So, Father, let it be!

Life from the dead is in that word,"T is immortality!

BLEST be thy love, dear Lord, That taught us this sweet way, Only to love thee for thyself

And for that love obey.

O thou, our souls' dear Hope,
We to thy goodness fly;
Where'er we are, thou canst protect,
Whate'er we need, supply.

Whether we sleep or wake,
To thee we both resign,
By night we see, as well as day,
If thy light on us shine.

Whether we live or die,
Both we submit to thee;

In death we live as well as life,
If thine in death we be.

Yes, o'er me, o'er me he watcheth,
Ceaseless watcheth, night and day;
Yes, even me, even me, he snatcheth
From the perils of the way.
Yes, in me, in me he dwelleth,
I in him, and he in me;
And my longing soul he filleth,
Here, and through eternity.

173.

H. BONAR.

The retreat. Hamburg, 12.
Now, hushing every adverse sound,
Songs of defence my soul surround,
As if all saints encamped about
One trusting heart pursued by doubt.
And O, how solemn, yet how sweet,
Their one assured, persuasive strain!
"The Lord of Hosts is thy retreat,
Still in his hands thy times remain."
O tender word! O truth divine!
Lord, I am altogether thine;

I have bowed down, I need not flee;
Peace, peace is mine in trusting thee.

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth,

And silver waves chime ever peacefully, And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,

Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea. So to the heart that knows thee, Love Eternal!

There is a temple sacred evermore; And all the Babel of life's angry voices Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth, And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully;

And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,

Disturbs the soul that dwells, O Lord! in thee.

MRS. H. B. STOWE.

In quiet hours the tranquil soul
Reflects the beauty of the sky;
No passions rise or billows roll,
And only God and heaven are nigh.
The tides of being ebb and flow,
Creating peace without alloy;
A sacred happiness we know,
Too high for mirth, too deep for joy.
Like birds that slumber on the sea,
Unconscious where the current runs,
We rest on God's infinity

Of bliss, that circles stars and suns.
His perfect peace has swept from sight
The narrow bounds of time and space,
And looking up with still delight
We catch the glory of his face.

FATHER, thy paternal care
Has my guardian been, my guide!
Every hallowed wish and prayer
Has thy hand of love supplied:
Thine is every thought of bliss
Left by hours and days gone by;
Every hope thine offspring is,
Beaming from futurity.

Every sun of splendid ray;
Every moon that shines serene;
Every morn that welcomes day;
Every evening's twilight scene;
Every hour which wisdom brings;
Every incense at thy shrine;
These, and all life's holiest things,
And its fairest,—all are thine.
And for all, my hymns shall rise
Daily to thy gracious throne;
Thither let my asking eyes
Turn unwearied, Righteous One!