Puslapio vaizdai
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THE HOLINESS OF GRIEF.

BY A JEWESS.

OH hush! be still! bring not the sound
Of earthly pleasure here!
Break not the sacredness profound

Of sorrow lingering near!

Tread lightly! 'tis a holy shrine,

Where grief in death hath birth,

Stamp'd with a dignity divine,
Which hath no trace of earth.

Oh! seek not, bring not worldly dreams Unto the haunts of wo;

The light that o'er them softly gleams

Hath not its source below!

Affliction is a sacred thing,

A messenger of love,

Soft whisperings on its wings to bring

Of lovelier homes above.

Seek not to shun its mission high
Or break its darkling chain,
And drown with loud festivity
Its sad, yet healing pain:

Why should we long to cast aside
The link 'twixt man and Heaven,
And every sob of sorrow chide,
As grief were vainly given?

No! let it do its work, and lead
The bleeding heart to Him
Who strikes in love to serve our need,
When life's fond hope is dim.
No love on earth is deep as his,
Who weaves affliction's chain;
Weep on, and pray! till dearer bliss
Enfold the heart again.

Yes! 'tis His voice that sounds, when wo
Hath flung her shadow down;

His voice that murmurs soft and low,
E'en when he seems to frown.

Then, oh! how may light tones of earth
His awful presence dare?

Be still! bring not the mourner mirth
Which but of earth hath share.

Peace! peace! 'tis holy! Let the dead
Still linger on the heart;

Nor fear the tears a brief while shed
Will bid all joy depart.

Tread lightly! Oh, profane them not,

Those hours of grief and prayer! Speak low; be earth awhile forgotOur Father dwelleth there!

(Original.)

"I AM THE ROSE OF SHARON AND THE LILY OF THE VALLEYS."

A. R. C.

ON Sharon's wild the glowing rose
Bends soft to Syrian gales,
And meekly fair the lily grows

In deep Judean vales;—

Meet emblems of that Loving One,

The "altogether fair,"

Who stoop'd to earth's low dwellings down,
To shed rich blessings there.

Yes! those sweet blossoms image well,

To hearts His grace that prove,

The meekness of Immanuel,

The sweetness of His love.

Can there be eyes so dark and dim—

Oft may His saints inquire

Who see no comeliness in Him,

No beauty to desire?

Thou "fairer than the sons of men!"
Descend and fill my heart;

I'll know that hidden glory then
Which rests where'er Thou art.

Within let thy sweet graces shine,
Adorning even me—

Proof that I hold a guest Divine,
Though mean His dwelling be.

Thy presence makes the lowliest place
How fragrant and how fair!

Then dwell within my soul, and trace
Thy heavenly beauty there.

Oh! when Thou gladd'st earth's sinful child

With mercies ne'er to fail,

Thou'rt like the rose of Sharon's wild,

The lily of the vale!

THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN.

WORDSWORTH.

UP to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noon-tide:
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn till night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestow'd
Upon the service of our God!

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