Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

"Nothing to do?" there are lambs to feed,
The precious hope of the Church's need;
Strength to be borne to the weak and faint,
Vigils to keep with the doubting saint.

"Nothing to do?" there are heights to attain,
Where Christ is transfigured yet again,
Where earth will fade in the vision sweet,
And the soul press on with wingèd feet.

"Nothing to do?" and thy Saviour said,
"Follow thou me in the path I tread."
Lord, lend thy help the journey through,
Lest, faint, we cry, "So much to do!"

--_Unidentified._

When death is drawing near,
And thy heart shrinks in fear,
And thy limbs fail,
Then raise thy hands and pray
To Him who smooths the way
Through the dark vale.

Seest thou the eastern dawn?
Hear'st thou, in the red morn,
The angels' song?
Oh! lift thy drooping head
Thou, who in gloom and dread
Hast lain so long.

Death comes to set thee free,
Oh! meet him cheerily,
As thy true friend;
And all thy fears shall cease,
And in eternal peace,
Thy penance end.

--_From_ "_Sintram._"

IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE.

It is not death to die--
To leave this weary road,
And, 'mid the brotherhood on high,
To be at home with God.

It is not death to close
The eye long dimmed by tears,
And wake, in glorious repose
To spend eternal years.

It is not death to bear
The wrench that sets us free
From dungeon chain,--to breathe the air
Of boundless liberty.

It is not death to fling
Aside this sinful dust,
And rise, on strong exulting wing,
To live among the just.

Jesus, thou Prince of life!
Thy chosen cannot die;
Like thee, they conquer in the strife,
To reign with thee on high.

--_Bethune._

RUGBY CHAPEL.

NOVEMBER, 1857.

Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn evening. The field
Strewn with its dark yellow drifts
Of withered leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Silent; hardly a shout
From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,
In the schoolroom windows; but cold,
Solemn, unlighted, austere,
Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel-walls, in whose bound
Thou, my father! art laid.
There thou dost lie, in the gloom
Of the autumn evening. But ah!
That word _gloom_ to my mind
Brings thee back in the light
Of thy radiant vigor again.
In the gloom of November we passed
Days not dark at thy side;
Seasons impaired not the ray
Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.
Such thou wast! and I stand
In the autumn evening, and think
Of bygone autumns with thee.

Fifteen years have gone round
Since thou arosest to tread,
In the summer-morning, the road
Of death, at a call unforeseen,
Sudden. For fifteen years,
We who till then in thy shade
Rested as under the boughs
Of a mighty oak, have endured
Sunshine and rain as we might,
Bare, unshaded, alone,
Lacking the shelter of thee.
O strong soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? For that force,
Surely, has not been left vain!
Somewhere, surely, afar,
In the sounding labor-house vast
Of being, is practiced that strength,
Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Yes, in some far-shining sphere,
Conscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the word
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live,
Prompt, unwearied, as here.
Still thou upraisest with zeal
The humble good from the ground,
Sternly repressest the bad;
Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse
Those who with half-opened eyes
Tread the border-land dim
'Twixt vice and virtue reviv'st,
Succorest. This was thy work,
This was the life upon earth.

What is the course of the life
Of mortal men on the earth?
Most men eddy about
Here and there, eat and drink,
Chatter and love and hate,
Gather and squander, are raised
Aloft, are hurled in the dust,
Striving blindly, achieving
Nothing; and then they die,--
Perish; and no one asks
Who or what they have been,
More than he asks what waves,
In the moonlit solitudes mild
Of the midmost ocean, have swelled,
Foamed for a moment, and gone.

And there are some whom a thirst
Ardent, unquenchable, fires,
Not with the crowd to be spent,
Not without aim to go round
In an eddy of purposeless dust,
Effort unmeaning and vain.
Ah yes! some of us strive
Not without action to die
Fruitless, but something to snatch
From dull oblivion, nor all
Glut the devouring grave.

We, we have chosen our path,--
Path to a clear-purposed goal,
Path of advance; but it leads
A long, steep journey, through sunk
Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth;
Then, on the height, comes the storm,
Thunder crashes from rock
To rock; the cataracts reply;
Lightnings dazzle our eyes;
Roaring torrents have breached
The track; the stream-bed descends
In the place where the wayfarer once
Planted his footsteps; the spray
Boils o'er its borders; aloft,
The unseen snow-beds dislodge
Their hanging ruin. Alas!
Havoc is made in our train!
Friends who set forth at our side
Falter, are lost in the storm.

We, we only are left!
With frowning foreheads, with lips
Sternly compressed, we strain on,
On; and at nightfall at last
Come to the end of our way,
To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;
Where the gaunt and taciturn host
Stands on the threshold, the wind
Shaking his thin white hairs,
Holds his lantern to scan
Our storm-beat figures, and asks,--
Whom in our party we bring?
Whom we have left in the snow?

Sadly we answer, We bring
Only ourselves! we lost
Sight of the rest in the storm.
Hardly ourselves we fought through,
Stripped, without friends, as we are.
Friends, companions, and train,
The avalanche swept from our side.

But thou wouldst not _alone_
Be saved, my father! _alone_
Conquer and come to thy goal,
Leaving the rest in the wild.
We were weary, and we
Fearful, and we in our march
Fain to drop down and to die.
Still thou turnedst, and still
Beckonedst the trembler, and still
Gavest the weary thy hand.
If, in the paths of the world,
Stones might have wounded thy feet,
Toil or dejection have tried
Thy spirit, of that we saw
Nothing: to us thou wast still
Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!
Therefore to thee it was given
Many to save with thyself;
And, at the end of thy day,
O faithful shepherd! to come,
Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

And through thee I believe
In the noble and great who are gone;
Pure souls honored and blest
By former ages, who else--
Such, so soulless, so poor,
Is the race of men whom I see--
Seemed but a dream of the heart,
Seemed but a cry of desire.
Yes! I believed that there lived
Others like thee in the past,
Not like the men of the crowd
Who all round me to-day
Bluster or cringe, and make life
Hideous and arid and vile;
But souls tempered with fire,
Fervent, heroic, and good,
Helpers and friends of mankind.

Servants of God!--or sons
Shall I not call you? because
Not as servants ye knew
Your Father's innermost mind,
His who unwillingly sees
One of his little ones lost,--
Yours is the praise, if mankind
Hath not as yet in its march
Fainted and fallen and died.

See! In the rocks of the world
Marches the host of mankind,
A feeble, wavering line,
Where are they tending? A God
Marshalled them, gave them their goal.
Ah, but the way is so long!

Years they have been in the wild:
Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks,
Rising all around, overawe;
Factions divide them; their host
Threatens to break, to dissolve.
Ah! keep them combined!
Else, of the myriads who fill
That army, not one shall arrive;
Sole they shall stray; on the rocks
Batter forever in vain,
Die one by one in the waste.

Then, in such hour of need
Of your fainting, dispirited race,
Ye like angels appear,
Radiant with ardor divine.
Beacons of hope, ye appear!
Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,
Weariness not on your brow.
Ye alight in our van! at your voice,
Panic, despair, flee away.
Ye move through the ranks, recall
The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
Praise, re-inspire the brave.
Order, courage, return;
Eyes rekindling, and prayers,
Follow your steps as you go.
Ye fill up the gaps in our files,
Strengthen the wavering line,
'Stablish, continue our march,
On, to the bound of the waste,
On, to the City of God.

--_Matthew Arnold._

THE RIGHT MUST WIN.

Oh, it is hard to work for God,
To rise and take his part
Upon this battle-field of earth,
And not sometimes lose heart!

He hides himself so wondrously,
As though there were no God;
He is least seen when all the powers
Of ill are most abroad;

Or he deserts us in the hour
The fight is all but lost;
And seems to leave us to ourselves
Just when we need him most.

Yes, there is less to try our faith,
In our mysterious creed,
Than in the godless look of earth,
In these our hours of need.

Ill masters good; good seems to change
To ill with greatest ease;
And, worst of all, the good with good
Is at cross purposes.

It is not so, but so it looks;
And we lose courage then;
And doubts will come if God hath kept
His promises to men.

Ah! God is other than we think;
His ways are far above,
Far beyond reason's height, and reached
Only by childlike love.

The look, the fashion of God's ways
Love's life long study are;
She can be bold, and guess, and act,
When reason would not dare,

She has a prudence of her own;
Her step is firm and free;
Yet there is cautious science, too,
In her simplicity.

Workmen of God! Oh lose not heart,
But learn what God is like;
And in the darkest battle field
Thou shalt know where to strike.

Thrice blest is he to whom is given
The instinct that can tell
That God is on the field when He
Is most invisible.

Blest too is he who can divine
Where real right doth lie,
And dares to take the side that seems
Wrong to man's blindfold eye.

Then learn to scorn the praise of men,
And learn to lose with God;
For Jesus won the world through shame,
And beckons thee His road.

God's glory is a wondrous thing,
Most strange in all its ways,
And, of all things on earth, least like
What men agree to praise.

As he can endless glory weave
From what men reckon shame,
In His own world He is content
To play a losing game.

Muse on His justice, downcast some!
Muse and take better heart;
Back with thine angel to the field,
And bravely do thy part.

God's justice is a bed, where we
Our anxious hearts may lay,
And, weary with ourselves, may sleep
Our discontent away.

But right is right, since God is God;
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin!

--_F. W. Faber._

THE SUBSTITUTE.

"Jesu, plena caritate Manus tuæ perfortæ Laxent mea crimina; Latus tuum lanceatum, Caput spinis coronatum, Hæc sint medicamina"--OLD HYMN.

I lay my sins on Jesus,
The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all and free us
From the accursed load.
I bring my guilt to Jesus,
To wash my crimson stains
White in his blood most precious,
Till not a stain remains.

I lay my wants on Jesus;
All fullness dwells in Him.
He heals all my diseases,
He doth my soul redeem.
I lay my griefs on Jesus,
My burdens and my cares;
He from them all releases,
He all my sorrows shares.

I rest my soul on Jesus,
This weary soul of mine;
His right hand me embraces,
I on his breast recline.
I love the name of Jesus,
Immanuel, Christ, the Lord;
Like fragrance on the breezes,
His name abroad is poured.

I long to be like Jesus,
Meek, loving, lowly, mild,
I long to be like Jesus,
The Father's holy child.
I long to be with Jesus
Amid the heavenly throng,
To sing with saints his praises,
To learn the angel's song.

--_Horatius Bonar._

JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

Judges. Chapter xi.

She stood before her father's gorgeous tent,
To listen for his coming. Her loose hair
Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud
Floating around a statue, and the wind,
Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape
Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd
Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised
Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven,
Till the long lashes lay upon her brow.
Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft
Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck,
Just where the cheek was melting to its curve
With the unearthly beauty sometimes there,
Was shaded, as if light had fallen off,
Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling
Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose
Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd,
Like nothing but a lovely wave of light,
To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
Her countenance was radiant with love.
She look'd like one to die for it--a being
Whose whole existence was the pouring out
Of rich and deep affections. I have thought
A brother's and a sister's love were much;
I know a brother's is--for I have been
A sister's idol--and I know how full
The heart may be of tenderness to her!
But the affection of a delicate child
For a fond father, gushing, as it does,
With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on
Through all earth's changes, like a river's course--
Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pure
By the world's discipline of light and shade--
'Tis deeper--holier.

The wind bore on
The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes
Rang sharply on the ear at intervals;
And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts
Returning from the battle, pour'd from far,
Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.
They came, as earthly conquerors always come,
With blood and splendor, revelry and woe.
The stately horse treads proudly--he hath trod
The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels
Of warriors roll magnificently on--
Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. _Man_ is there--
Majestic, lordly man--with his sublime
And elevated brow, and godlike frame;
Lifting his crest in triumph--for his heel
Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down!
The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on
Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set,
And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise
Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,
But free as India's leopard; and his mail,
Whose _shekels_ none in Israel might bear,
Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame.
His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look
Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow,
Might quell the lion. He led on, but thoughts
Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins
Grew visible upon his swarthy brow,
And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain.
He trod less firmly; and his restless eye
Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill
He dared not meet, were there. His home was near;
And men were thronging, with that strange delight
They have in human passions, to observe
The struggle of his feelings with his pride.
He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs
Before his tent were motionless. The leaves
Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines
Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye,
Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one,
The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems,
And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd
Of silent and familiar things, stole up,
Like the recover'd passages of dreams.
He strode on rapidly. A moment more,
And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprang
One with a bounding footstep, and a brow
Of light to meet him. Oh how beautiful!--
Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem--
And her luxuriant hair!--'twas like the sweep
Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still,
As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw
Her arms about her neck--he heeded not.
She call'd him "Father"--but he answer'd not.
She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?
There was no anger in that blood-shot eye.
Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm,
And laid her white hand gently on his brow,
And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords.
The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands.
And spoke the name of God, in agony.
She knew that he was stricken, then, and rush'd
Again into his arms; and, with a flood
Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer
That he would breathe his agony in words.
He told her--and a momentary flush
Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul
Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stood
Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well--
And she would die.

* * * * *

The sun had well nigh set.
The fire was on the altar; and the priest
Of the High God was there. A pallid man
Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven,
As if he would have pray'd, but had no words--
And she who was to die, the calmest one
In Israel at that hour, stood up alone,
And waited for the sun to set. Her face
Was pale, but very beautiful--her lip
Had a more delicate outline, and the tint
Was deeper; but her countenance was like
The majesty of angels.
The sun set--
And she was dead--but not by violence.

--_N. P. Willis._

Lord, many times I am aweary quite
Of mine own self, my sin, my vanity--
Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright,
Weary of me.

And hate against myself I often bear,
And enter with myself in fierce debate:
Take Thou my part against myself, nor share
In that just hate!

Best friends might loathe us, if what things perverse
We know of our own selves, they also knew:
Lord, Holy One! if Thou who knowest worse
Shouldst loathe us too!

--_Richard Chenevix Trench._

CLEANSING FIRES.

Let thy gold be cast in the furnace,
Thy red gold, precious and bright;
Do not fear the hungry fire,
With its caverns of burning light;
And thy gold shall return more precious,
Free from every spot and stain;
For gold must be tried by fire,
As a heart must be tried by pain.

In the cruel fire of sorrow
Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail;
Let thy hand be firm and steady,
Do not let thy spirit quail:
But wait till the trial is over,
And take thy heart again;
For as gold is tried by fire,
So a heart must be tried by pain!

I shall know by the gleam and glitter
Of the golden chain you wear,
By your heart's calm strength in loving,
Of the fire they have had to bear.
Beat on, true heart, forever;
Shine bright strong golden chain;
And bless the cleansing fire,
And the furnace of living pain!

--_Adelaide Procter._

GONE BEFORE.

Thou art in heaven, and I am still on earth;
'Tis years, long years, since we were parted here,
I still a wanderer amid grief and fear,
And thou the tenant of a brighter sphere.
Yet still thou seemest near;
But yesterday it seems,
Since the last clasp was given,
Since our lips met,
And our eyes looked into each other's depths.

Thou art amid the deathless, I still here,
Amid things mortal, in a land of graves,
A land o'er which the heavy-beating waves
Of changing time move on, a land where raves
The storm, which whoso braves
Must have his anchor fixed
Firmly within the vail--;
So let my anchor be;
Such be my consolation and my hope!

Thou art amid the sorrowless, I here
Amid the sorrowing: and yet not long
Shall I remain 'mid sin, and fear, and wrong:
Soon shall I join you in your sinless song.
Thy day has come, not gone,
Thy sun has risen, not set,
Thy life is now beyond
The reach of death or change;
Not ended, but begun,
Such shall our life be soon.

And then,--the meeting-day,
How full of light and joy!
All fear of change cast out,
All shadows passed away,
The union sealed forever
Between us and our Lord.

--_Horatius Bonar._

THE LENT JEWELS.

In schools of wisdom all the day was spent:
His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent,
With homeward thoughts, which dwelt upon the wife
And two fair children, who consoled his life.
She meeting at the threshold led him in,
And with these words preventing, did begin:--
"Ever rejoicing at your wished return,
Yet am I most so now: for since this morn
I have been much perplexed and sorely tried
Upon one point which you shall now decide.
Some years ago, a friend into my care
Some jewels gave--rich, precious gems they were;
But having given them in my charge, this friend
Did afterward nor come for them, nor send,
But left them in my keeping for so long,
That now it almost seems to me, a wrong
That he should suddenly arrive to-day,
To take those jewels, which he left, away.
What think you? Shall I freely yield them back,
And with no murmuring?--so henceforth to lack
Those gems myself, which I had learned to see
Almost as mine forever, mine in fee."

"What question can be here? Your own true heart
Must needs advise you of the only part:
That may be claimed again which was but lent,
And should be yielded with no discontent.
Nor surely can we find herein a wrong
That it was left us to enjoy it long."

"Good is the word," she answered; "may we now
And evermore that it is good allow!"
And, rising, to an inner chamber led,
And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed,
Two children pale: and he the jewels knew,
Which God had lent him, and resumed anew.

--_Richard Chenevix Trench._

ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY.

How beautiful it is for man to die
Upon the walls of Zion! to be call'd,
Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,
To put his armor off, and rest--in heaven!

The sun was setting on Jerusalem,
The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light
Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque,
Like molten silver. Every thing was fair;
And beauty hung upon the painted fanes;
Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave
Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men
Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd
Like woe, or suffering, save one small train
Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by,
And left no trace upon the busy throng.
The sun was just as beautiful; the shout
Of joyous revelry, and the low hum
Of stirring thousands rose as constantly!
Life look'd as winning; and the earth and sky,
And every thing seem'd strangely bent to make
A contrast to that comment upon life.
How wonderful it is that human pride
Can pass that touching moral as it does--
Pass it so frequently, in all the force
Of mournful and most simple eloquence--
And learn no lesson! They bore on the dead,
With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not
By the rude multitude, save, here and there,
A look of vague inquiry, or a curse
Half-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeve
Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall
And Israel too pass'd on--the trampled Jew!
Israel!--who made Jerusalem a throne
For the wide world--pass'd on as carelessly;
Giving no look of interest to tell
The shrouded dead was any thing to her.
Oh that they would be gather'd as a brood
Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings!--

They laid him down with strangers, for his home
Was with the setting sun, and they who stood
And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave,
Were not his kindred; but they found him there,
And loved him for his ministry of Christ.
He had died young. But there are silver'd heads,
Whose race of duty is less nobly run.
His heart was with Jerusalem; and strong
As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties
Religion makes so beautiful at home,
He flung them from him in his eager race,
And sought the broken people of his God,
To preach to them of JESUS. There was one,
Who was his friend and helper. One who went
And knelt beside him at the sepulchre
Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel.
They had one spirit, and their hearts were knit
With more than human love. God call'd him home.
And he of whom I speak stood up alone,
And in his broken-heartedness wrought on
Until his Master call'd him.

Oh, is it not a noble thing to die.
As dies the Christian, with his armor on!--
What is the hero's clarion, though its blast
Ring with the mastery of a world, to this?--
What are the searching victories of the mind--
The lore of vanish'd ages?--What are all
The trumpetings of proud humanity,
To the short history of Him who made
His sepulchre beside the King of kings?

--_N. P. Willis._

SET APART.

"Know that the Lord hath set apart him that is godly for Himself."--Ps. iv. 3.

Set apart for Jesus!
Is not this enough,
Though the desert prospect,
Open wild and rough?
Set apart for His delight,
Chosen for His holy pleasure,
Sealed to be His special treasure!
Could we choose a nobler joy?--and would we if we might?

Set apart to serve Him,
Ministers of light,
Standing in His presence,
Ready day or night!
Chosen for His service blest
He would have us always willing
Like the angel-hosts fulfilling
Swiftly and rejoicingly each recognized behest.

Set apart to praise Him,
Set apart for this!
Have the blessed angels
Any truer bliss?
Soft the prelude, though so clear;
Isolated tones are trembling,
But the chosen choir, assembling,
Soon shall sing together, while the universe shall hear.

Set apart to love Him,
And His love to know!
Not to waste affection
On a passing show.
Called to give Him life and heart,
Called to pour the hidden treasure,
That none other claims to measure,
Into His beloved hand! thrice-blessèd 'set apart!'

Set apart for ever
For Himself alone!
Now we see our calling
Gloriously shown!
Owning, with no secret dread,
This our holy separation,
Now the crown of consecration
Of the Lord our God shall rest upon our willing head!

--_Frances Ridley Havergal._

THE USEFUL LIFE.

=Psychê mou, psychê mou, Anasta, ti katheudeis.= OLD GREEK HYMN.

Go labor on; spend, and be spent,--
Thy joy to do the Father's will;
It is the way the Master went,
Should not the servant tread it still?

Go labor on; 'tis not for nought;
Thy earthly loss is heavenly gain;
Men heed thee, love thee, praise thee not;
The Master praises, what are men?

Go labor on; enough, while here,
If He shall praise thee, if he deign
Thy willing heart to mark and cheer;
No toil for Him shall be in vain.

Go labor on; your hands are weak,
Your knees are faint, your soul cast down;
Yet falter not; the prize you seek,
Is near,--a kingdom and a crown!

Go labor on, while it is day,
The world's dark night is hastening on;
Speed, speed thy work, cast sloth away:
It is not thus that souls are won.

Men die in darkness at your side,
Without a hope to cheer the tomb;
Take up the torch and wave it wide,
The torch that lights time's thickest gloom.

Toil on, faint not, keep watch and pray;
Be wise, the erring soul to win;
Go forth into the world's highway,
Compel the wanderer to come in.

Toil on, and in thy toil rejoice;
For toil comes rest, for exile home;
Soon shalt thou hear the Bridegroom's voice,
The midnight peal, behold I come!

--_Horatius Bonar._

HYMN.

O holy Saviour, Friend unseen,
The faint, the weak, on Thee may lean,
Help me, throughout life's varying scene,
By faith to cling to Thee!

Blest with communion so Divine,
Take what Thou wilt, shall I repine,
When, as the branches to the vine,
My soul may cling to Thee?

Far from her home, fatigued, oppressed,
Here she has found a place of rest,
An exile still, yet not unblest,
While she can cling to Thee!

Without a murmur I dismiss
My former dreams of earthly bliss,
My joy, my recompense be this,
Each hour to cling to Thee!

What though the world deceitful prove,
And earthly friends and joys remove,
With patient, uncomplaining love,
Still would I cling to Thee!

Oft when I seem to tread alone
Some barren waste with thorns o'ergrown,
A voice of love, in gentlest tone,
Whispers, "Still cling to Me!"

Though faith and hope awhile be tried,
I ask not, need not, aught beside;
How safe, how calm, how satisfied,
The souls that cling to Thee!

They fear not Life's rough storms to brave,
Since Thou art near, and strong to save;
Nor shudder e'en at Death's dark wave,
Because they cling to Thee!

Blest is my lot, whate'er befall;
What can disturb me, who appal;
While, as my strength, my rock, my all,
Saviour, I cling to Thee!

--_Charlotte Elliot._

"BEHOLD, THE BRIDEGROOM COMETH!"