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There is a thought so purely blest,

That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,

And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to gild the stormiest skies,

To deck with flowers the bleakest moor— A thought whose home is paradise—

The charities of poor to poor.

It were not for the rich to blame,

If they, whom fortune seems to scorn, Should vent their ill-content and shame

On others less or more forlorn: But, that the veriest needs of life

Should be dispensed with freer hand, Than all their stores and treasures rife—

Is not for them to understand.

To give the stranger's children bread,

Of your precarious board the spoil— To watch your helpless neighbour's bed,

And sleepless, meet the morrow's toil; The gifts, not proffer'd once alone,

The daily sacrifice of years— And when all else to give is gone,

The precious gifts of love and tears.

Therefore lament not honest soul!

That Providence holds back from thee, The means thou might'st so well control—

The luxuries of charity.

Manhood is nobler, as thou art;

And should some chance thy coffers fill, How art thou sure to keep thine heart,

To hold unchang'd thy loving will?

Wealth, like all other power, is blind,

And bears a poison in its core, To taint the best, if feeble mind,

And madden that debas'd before. It is the battle, not the prize,

That fills the hero's breast with joy; And industry the bliss supplies

Which mere possession might destroy.

R. M. Milnes

"What is the Church, and what ami?"
A world to one poor sandy grain,
A waste of sea and sky,
To one frail drop of rain.

"What boots one feeble infant tone
To the full choir denied, or given,
Where millions round the throne
Are chanting morn and even?"

Nay, the kind watchers hearkening there
Distinguish in the deep of song
Each little wave, each air,
Upon the faltering tongue.

Each half-note in the great Amen,
Even by the utterer's self unheard,
They store; O fail not then
To bring thy lowly word.

J. Keble

evil SAYING THE CREED Give me a tender spotless child,

Rehearsing o'er at eve, or morn,
His chant of glory undefiled,
The creed that with the Church was born.

Down be his earnest forehead cast,
His slender fingers join'd for prayer,

With half a frown his eye seal'd fast,
Against the world's intruding glare.

Who while his lips so gently move,
And all his look is purpose strong,

Can say what wonders, wrought above,
Upon his unstain'd fancy throng?

The world new framed, the Christ new born,
The mother-maid, the cross, and grave,

The rising sun on Easter morn,

The fiery tongues sent down to save.

The gathering Church, the font of life,
The saints and mourners kneeling round;

The Day to end the body's strife,
The Saviour in His people crown'd.

All in majestic march, and even,
To the veil'd eye by turns appear,

True to their time as stars in Heaven,
No morning dreams so still and clear.

And this is Faith, and thus she wins
Her victory, day by day rehearsed,

Seal but thine eye to pleasant sins,
Love's glorious world will on thee burst.

J. Keble



Pause not to dream of the future before us:
Pause not to weep the wild cares that c6me o'er us
Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus,

Unintermitting goes up into Heaven!
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing:
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labour is worship!" the robin is singing:
"Labour is worship!" the wild bee is ringing:
Listen! that eloquent music upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower; From the small insect the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labour is life !—'tis the still water faileth;

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth!

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labour is glory !—the flying cloud lightens; Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys would'st thou keep them in tune!

Labour is rest—from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us;
Rest from sin promptings that ever entreat us;

Rest from world syrens that lure us to ill. Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow Work—thou shalt ride over care's coming billow, Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow,

Work with a stout heart and resolute will.

Labour is health—lo! the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leap


How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping,

True as a sunbeam, the swift sickle guides, Labour is wealth—in the sea the pearl groweth, Rich the Queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth, From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth, Temple, and statue, the marble block hides.

Droop not though shame, sin, and anguish are round

thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound

Look to yon blue heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod.
Work—for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;
Labour—all labour is noble and holy,
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

F. S. Osgood

Christ before thy door is waiting:

Rouse thee, slave of earthly gold.
Lo, He comes, thy pomp abating,
Hungry, thirsty, homeless cold:

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