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THE MARINERS HYMN

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner! Christian, Heaven speed thee,

Let loose the rudder bands! good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily, tempests will come:
Steer thy course steadily! Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather bow, breakers are round thee!
Let fall the plummet now, shallows may ground thee!
Reef in the fore-sail there! hold the helm fast!
So — let the vessel wear! there swept the blast.

What of the night, watchman? what of the night?
"Cloudy — all quiet — no land yet — all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant, danger may be
At an hour when all seems securest to thee.

How — gains the leak so fast? clear out the hold!
Hoist up thy merchandise, — heave out the gold!
There —let the ingots go ! now the ship rights;
Hurrah! the harbor's near, — lo the red lights!

Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island,
Straight for the beacon steer,— straight for the high-
land;

Crowd all thy canvas on, cut through the foam,
Christian! cast anchor now: Heaven is thy home!

C. Southey

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MY PSALM

I MOURN no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and singing low,

I hear the" glad streams run, The windows of my soul I throw

Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward, nor behind,

I look in hope and fear:
But grateful, take the good I find,

The best of now, and here.

I plough no more a desert land

For harvest, weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand

Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay

Aside the toiling oar;
The angel sought so far away

I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play

Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May

Blow through the autumn mor n;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringed lids to heaven,

And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given;

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,

The south wind softly sigh,
And sweet calm days in golden haze

Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word

Rebuke an age of wrong: The graven flowers that wreathe the sword

Make not the blade less strong.

Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track,

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back.

That more and more a Providence

Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good.

That death seems but a covered way,

Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray

Beyond the Father's sight.

That care and trial seem at last,
Through memory's sunset air,

Like mountain ranges overpast
In purple distance fair.

That all the jarring notes of life

Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the uiji^ls of its strife

Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

And so the west winds play;
And all the windows of my heart

I open to this day.

J. G. Wkittier

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YOUTH AND AGE

•" I "HE seas are quiet when the winds are o'er,

JL So calm are we when passions are no more!
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost .

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries;
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home;
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Waller

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MY BIRD

ERE last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest,
And folded, O! so lovingly,
Its tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;

Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest: O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred,

Whose waters nevermore shall rest!

This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from heaven,

This bird with the immortal wing,
To me,— to me, Thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine:

This life, which I have dared invoke,
Is parallel henceforth with mine.

A silent awe is in my room,—
I tremble with delicious fear;

The future, with its light, and gloom,
Time, and eternity are here.

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