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In a service which Thy will appoints,
There are no bonds for me;

For my inmost heart is taught the truth
That makes Thy children free:

And a life of self-renouncing love
Is a life of liberty.

A. L. Waring


"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale;

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The falconer to the lady said;
And she made answer, " Endless sorrow!"

For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the falconer's words,
And from the look of the falconer's eye;

And from the love that was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

Young Romilly through Barden woods

Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash

To let slip upon buck or doe.

The pair have reach'd that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

This striding place is called the Strid,

A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,

And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid,
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,

Shall bound across the Strid?

He sprang in glee—for what cared he

That the river was strong and the rocks were steep? But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And check'd him in his leap.

The boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,

And long unspeaking sorrow: Wharf shall be to pitying hearts

A name more sad than Yarrow.

Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, " Let there be,

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory."

The stately Priory was rear'd,
And Wharf as he roll'd along

To matins join'd a mournful voice,
Nor fail'd at even-song.

And the Lady pray'd in heaviness
That look'd not for relief!

But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh there is never sorrow of heart,
That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend.

W. Wordsworth



Jesus, my strength, my hope,

On Thee I cast my care,
With humble confidence look up,

And know thou hear'st my prayer.

Give me on Thee to wait

Till I can all things do, On Thee Almighty to create,

Almighty to renew!

I want a sober mind, A self-renouncing will, That tramples down and casts behind The baits of pleasing ill:

A soul inured to pain,
To hardships, grief, and loss;
Bold to take up, firm to sustain,
The consecrated cross.

I want a godly fear,

A quick discerning eye, That looks to Thee when sin is near,

That sees the tempter fly;

A spirit still prepared,

And arm'd with jealous care, For ever standing on its guard,

And watching unto prayer.

I want a heart to pray,

To pray and never cease, Never to murmur at Thy stay,

Or wish my sufferings less;

This blessing, above all,

Always to pray, I want,
Out of the deep on Thee to call

And never, never faint.

I want a true regard,

A single, steady aim,
Unmoved by theat'ning, or reward,

To Thee and Thy great name;

A jealous, just concern

For Thine immortal praise; A pure desire that all may learn

And glorify Thy grace.

I rest upon Thy word;
Thy promise is for me;

My succour and salvation, Lord,
Shall surely come from Thee.
But let me still abide,
Nor from Thy hope remove,

Till Thou my patient spirit guide
Into Thy perfect love!

Charles Wesley

xv THOUGHTS OF CHRIST Jesu, the very thought of Thee

With sweetness fills the breast; But sweeter far Thy face to see, And in Thy presence rest.

No voice can sing, no heart can frame,

Nor can the memory find,
A sweeter sound than Jesu's name,

The Saviour of mankind.

O hope of every contrite heart,

O joy of all the meek,
To those who fall how kind Thou art,

How good to those who. seek!

But what to those who find? Ah! this
Nor tongue nor pen can show;

The love of Jesus, what it is, -
None but His loved ones know.

Jesu, our only joy be Thou,

As Thou our prize wilt be;
In Thee be all our glory now,
And through eternity.

Bernard of Fontaine
Translated by E. Caswall

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