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God in Israel sows the seeds

Of affliction, pain, and toil;
These spring up and choke the weeds
Which would else o'erspread the soil.
Trials make the promise sweet,

Trials give new life to prayer,
Trials bring me to his feet,
Lay me low and keep me there.


O! to be brought to Jesus' feet,
Though sorrows fix me there,
Is still a privilege; and sweet

The energies of prayer,
Though sighs and tears its language be,
If Christ be nigh and smile on me!


Each cloud that dims thy upward way
Shall more endear the glorious day
That gilds the land of love!


O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor,
Lifelong we build these human natures up

Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine.
And trial ever consecrates the cup
Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.

The heart is like an instrument whose strings
Steal magic music from life's mystic frets;
The golden threads are spun through suffer-
ing's fire,

Wherewith the marriage-robes for heaven are
And all the rarest hues of human life
Take radiance, and are rainbowed out in tears.

With every anguish of our earthly part
The spirit's sight grows clearer; this was

But all God's angels come to us disguised;
Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death,
One after other lift their frowning masks,
And we behold the seraph's face beneath,
All radiant with the glory and the calm
Of having looked upon the front of God.



When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay.



Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud,
To damp our brainless ardors, and abate
That glare of life which often blinds the wise.

Smitten friends

Are angels sent on errands full of love;
For us they languish, and for us they die.

Amid my list of blessings infinite
Stands this the foremost, "That my heart has


When pain can't bless, Heaven quits us in despair.


The martyr's fire-crown on the brow
Doth into glory burn:

Envy's harsh berries and the choking pool
Of the world's scorn are the right mother-milk
To the tough hearts that pioneer their kind,
And break a pathway to those unknown realms Let us be patient! these severe afflictions

That in the earth's broad shadow lie enthralled.

Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,
May be heaven's distant lamps.

And tears that from love's torn heart flow,
To pearls of spirit turn.



Our dearest hopes in pangs are born,
The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.

Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring,
Though bosoms torn may be,
Yet suffering is a holy thing;
Without it what were we ?


Weep I cannot, but my heart bleeds.


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To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world

Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood,
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.


If of our affections none find grace

In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made

The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have than that, in loving thee,
Glory to that eternal peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
From the Italian of MICHAEL ANGELO.

Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.


Some gather round them a phalanx of friends,
Scattering affection like coin in a crowd;
I keep my heart for the few that Heaven sends,
Where they'll find their names writ when I
lie in my shroud.




- AGE.


My way of life

Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth honor, breath
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but

dare not.


But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave.


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.


O not more sweet the tears

Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of old age on the "hoary head,"
When it enters the eve of years.


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?


A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale, Long rifled life of sweets can yield no more. YOUNG.

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