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.

For 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.

MORALITY.

E cannot kindle when we will

WE

The fire that in the heart resides,

The spirit bloweth and is still,

In mystery our soul abides:

But tasks in hours of insight will'd
Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.

With aching hands and bleeding feet
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
We bear the burden and the heat

Of the long day, and wish 'twere done.
Not till the hours of light return
All we have built do we discern.

MATTHEW Arnold.

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT

AVAILETH.

AY not, the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back, througlí creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright.

ARTHUR H. CLOUGH, 1849

THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY.

DE

EAR, secret greenness! nurst below
Tempests and winds and winter nights!
Vex not, that but One sees thee grow;
That One made all these lesser lights.

What needs a conscience calm and bright
Within itself, an outward test?
Who breaks his glass, to take more light,
Makes way for storms into his rest.

Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch
At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;
Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch
Till the white-winged reapers come!

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.

SPINNING.

LIKE a blind spinner in the sun,

I tread my days;

I know that all the threads will run
Appointed ways;

I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.

I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin;

I only know that some one came,
And laid within

My hand the thread, and said, "Since you
Are blind, but one thing you can do."

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,

I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I

Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.

I know not why, but I am sure
That tint and place,
In some great fabric to endure
Past time and race

60

My threads will have; so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung
From one short word

Said over me when I was young, -
So young, I heard

It, knowing not that God's name signed
My brow, and sealed me His, though blind.

But whether this be seal or sign
Within, without,

It matters not. The bond divine
I never doubt.

I know He set me here, and still,
And glad, and blind, I wait His will;

But listen, listen, day by day,
To hear their tread

Who bear the finished web away,

And cut the thread,

And bring God's message in the sun,

"Thou poor blind spinner, work is done."

"THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY."

WHAT we, when face to face we see

The Father of our souls, shall be,

John tells us, doth not yet appear :
Ah! did he tell what we are here!

H. H.