SONNET.

OURNER, that dost deserve thy mournfulness,

Mou

Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell; Say, "God is angry, and I earned it well;

I would not have Him smile and not redress." Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less. "God rules at least, I find, as prophets tell,

And proves it in this prison." Straight thy cell Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness.

“A prison, —and yet from door and window-bar I catch a thousand breaths of His sweet air;

Even to me, His days and nights are fair;
He shows me many a flower, and mary a star;
And though I mourn, and He is very far,
He does not kill the hope that reaches there."

ANON. From "Adela Cath:art?

A LITTLE BIRD I AM.

Written during ten years' imprisonment in the Bastille.

A

LITTLE bird I am,

Shut from the fields of air;
And in my cage I sit and sing

To Him who placed me there;
Well pleased a prisoner to be,
Because, my God, it pleases Thee!

Naught have I else to do;

I sing the whole day long;

And He whom most I love to please
Doth listen to my song;

He caught and bound my wandering wing,
But still He bends to hear me sing.

Thou hast an ear to hear,

A heart to love and bless;

And though my notes were e'er so rude,
Thou wouldst not hear the less;
Because Thou knowest, as they fall,
That love, sweet love, inspires them all.

My cage confines me round;

Abroad I cannot fly;

But though my wing is closely bound,

My heart's at liberty;

My prison walls cannot control

The flight, the freedom of the soul.

O, it is good to soar

These bolts and bars above,
To Him whose purpose I adore,
Whose providence I love;
And in Thy mighty will to find
The joy, the freedom, of the mind.

MADAME GUYON, 1648-1717.

I

THE WISH OF TO-DAY.

ASK not now for gold to gild

With mocking shine a weary frame ;

The yearning of the mind is stilled
I ask not now for Fame.

A rose-cloud, dimly seen above,

Melting in heaven's blue depths away O! sweet, fond dream of human Love! For thee I may not pray.

But, bowed in lowliness of mind,
I make my humble wishes known
I only ask a will resigned,

O Father, to thine own!

To-day, beneath thy chastening eye,
I crave alone for peace and rest,
Submissive in thy hand to lie,
And feel that it is best.

A marvel seems the Universe,
A miracle our Life and Death;
A mystery which I cannot pierce,
Around, above, beneath.

In vain I task my aching brain,

In vain the sage's thought I scan; I only feel how weak and vain,

How poor and blind, is man!

And now my spirit sighs for home,
And longs for light whereby to see,
And like a weary child, would come,
O Father, unto thee!

Though oft, like letters traced on sand,
My weak resolves have passed away,
mercy lend thy helping hand
Unto my prayer to-day.

In

JOHN G. WHittier.

RABIA.*

ROUND holy Rabia's suffering bed

The wise men gathered, gazing gravely — "Daughter of God!" the youngest said, "Endure thy Father's chastening bravely; They who have steeped their souls in prayer, Can every anguish calmly bear."

She answered not, and turned aside,

Though not reproachfully nor sadly;
"Daughter of God!" the eldest cried,
"Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly ;
They who have learned to pray aright,
From pain's dark well draw up delight.”

Then spake she out, "Your words are fair;
But, oh, the truth lies deeper still;

A holy Arabian woman, who lived in the second century of the Hegira.

I know not, when absorbed in prayer,
Pleasure or pain, or good or ill;
They who God's face can understand,
Feel not the workings of His hand.”

From "Palm Leaves," by LORD HOUGHTON.

MADE PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING.

I

BLESS Thee, Lord, for sorrows sent

To break my dream of human power ;
For now my shallow cistern's spent,
I find Thy founts, and thirst no more.

I take Thy hand, and fears grow still;
Behold Thy face, and doubts remove;
Who would not yield his wavering will
To perfect Truth, and boundless Love?

That Love this restless soul doth teach
The strength of Thine eternal calm;
And tune its sad and broken speech,
To join, on earth, the angels' psalm.

O be it patient in Thy hands,

And drawn, through each mysterious hour,
To service of Thy pure commands,

The narrow way to Love and Power!

SAMUEL JOHNSON.