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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:

Hungry, by whom saints are fed With the eternal living Bread; Thirsty, from whose pierced side, Healing waters spring and glide; Cold and bare He comes, who never

May put off His robe of light;

Homeless, who must dwell for ever

In the Father's bosom bright.

Think how new-born saints assembling

Daily 'neath the shower of fire,
To their Lord in hope and trembling,
Brought the choice of earth's desire.
Never incense cloud so sweet,
As before the Apostle's feet,
Rose, majestic seer, from thee,
Type of royal hearts and free,
Son of holiest consolation,

When thou turned'st thy land to gold, And thy gold to strong salvation, Leaving all, by Christ to hold.

Type of priest, and monarch, casting
All their crowns before the throne,
And the treasure everlasting
Heaping in the world unknown.
Now in gems their relics lie,
And their names in blazonry,
And their forms from storied panes
Gleam athwart their own lov'd fanes,
Each his several radiance flinging

On the sacred altar floor,
Whether great ones much are bringing,
Or their mite the mean and poor.

Bring thine all, thy choicest treasure,

Heap it high, and hide it deep:
Thou shalt win o'erflowing measure,
Thou shalt climb where skies are steep.
For as Heaven's true only light
Quickens all those forms so bright,
So where bounty never faints,
There the Lord is with His saints,
Mercy's sweet contagion spreading

Far and wide from heart to heart;
From His wounds atonement shedding
On the blessed widow's part.

J. Keble



An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,
The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;
'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,
That we the wants of pleading man supply,
That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,
Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal:
Not these suffice—to sickness, pain, and woe,
The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;
Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,
But seeks the duty—nay, prevents the need;
Her utmost aid to every ill applies,
And plants relief for coming miseries.


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