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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

ex

CHARITY

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.

Crabbe

CXI

THE UNREGARDED TOILS OF THE
POOR.

Alas! what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed:

What loving hearts are sundered,
And yet man takes no heed!

He goeth in his daily course,

Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls

That in his bondage pine—
That turn for him the mazy wheel,

That delve for him the mine!
And pitieth not the children small

In smoky factories dim,
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,

Do heavy tasks for him!

To him they are but as the stones

Beneath his feet that lie:
It entereth not his thoughts that they

With him claim sympathy:
It entereth not his thoughts that God

Heareth the sufferer's groan,
That in His righteous eye their life

Is precious as his own.

M. Howitt

CXH

SUNDAY

O day most calm, most bright! The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Th' indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with His blood: The couch of time; care's balm and bay; The week were dark but for thy light,

Thy touch doth show the way.

Sundays the pillars are,
On which Heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities,
They are the fruitful bed and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King.
On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

G. Herbert

CXIII

THE HOUR OF PR A YER

Child, amid'st the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away:
Mother, with thine earnest eye
Ever following silently:
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave—
Pray! ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

Traveller in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band:
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone:
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell:
Sailor, on the darkening sea,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain:
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

F. Hemans

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