ADVERSITY. God in Israel sows the seeds Of affliction, pain, and toil; Trials give new life to prayer, COWPER. O! to be brought to Jesus' feet, The energies of prayer, 'CONDER. Each cloud that dims thy upward way BOWRING. O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine. The heart is like an instrument whose strings Wherewith the marriage-robes for heaven are With every anguish of our earthly part But all God's angels come to us disguised; J. R. LOWELL. meant When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay. 19 J. R. LOWELL. Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, Smitten friends Are angels sent on errands full of love; Amid my list of blessings infinite YOUNG. When pain can't bless, Heaven quits us in despair. YOUNG. The martyr's fire-crown on the brow Envy's harsh berries and the choking pool That in the earth's broad shadow lie enthralled. Not from the ground arise, We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; What seem to us but sad funereal tapers, And tears that from love's torn heart flow, MASSEY. LONGFELLOW. Our dearest hopes in pangs are born, Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring, TRENCH. Weep I cannot, but my heart bleeds. SHAKSPEARE. To them I may have owed another gift, Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood, WORDSWORTH. If of our affections none find grace In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert. BYRON. Some gather round them a phalanx of friends, MISS MULOCH. [See also LOVE-FRIENDSHIP.] AFFLICTION-(See ADVERSITY.) - AGE. AGE. My way of life Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf; dare not. SHAKSPEARE. But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. WORDSWORTH. Time has laid his hand Upon my heart gently, not smiting it; But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. LONGFELLOW. Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye. SHAKSPEARE. With weary hand, yet steadfast will, In old age as in youth, Thy Master found thee sowing still The good seed of his truth. WHITTIER. O not more sweet the tears Of the dewy eve on the violet shed, "SONGS IN THE NIGHT." Why weep ye then for him, who, having won The bounds of man's appointed years, at last, Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done, Serenely to his final rest has passed, While the soft memory of his virtues yet Lingers like twilight hues when the bright sun is set? BRYANT. A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale, Long rifled life of sweets can yield no more. YOUNG. |