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evil SAYING THE CREED Give me a tender spotless child,
Rehearsing o'er at eve, or morn,
Down be his earnest forehead cast,
With half a frown his eye seal'd fast,
Who while his lips so gently move,
Can say what wonders, wrought above,
The world new framed, the Christ new born,
The rising sun on Easter morn,
The fiery tongues sent down to save.
The gathering Church, the font of life,
The Day to end the body's strife,
All in majestic march, and even,
True to their time as stars in Heaven,
And this is Faith, and thus she wins
Seal but thine eye to pleasant sins,
Pause not to dream of the future before us:
Unintermitting goes up into Heaven!
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.
"Labour is worship!" the robin is singing:
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 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
Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod.
F. S. Osgood
Rouse thee, slave of earthly gold.
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,
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
On the sacred altar floor,
Bring thine all, thy choicest treasure,
Heap it high, and hide it deep:
Far and wide from heart to heart;
An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,