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HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND KNOCKETH.

IN the silent midnight watches,
List-thy bosom door!

How it knocketh-knocketh-knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!

Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating:

'Tis thy heart of sin;

'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth

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Death comes on with reckless footsteps,

To the hall and hut:

Think you Death will tarry, knocking,
Where the door is shut?

Jesus waitethwaitethwaiteth,

But the door is fast;

Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth;

Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis time to stand entreating

Christ to let thee in:

At the gate of Heaven beating,

Wailing for thy sin.

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH.

Nay!-alas, thou guilty creature!
Hast thou, then, forgot?

Jesus waited long to know thee;
Now he knows thee not.

Rev. ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH.

Ан, here it is! the sliding rail

That marks the old remembered spot, The gap that struck our schoolboy trail, The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church:
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver birch

And ended at the farmhouse door.

No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,

But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green,
The broken millstone at the sill,

Though many a rood might stretch between,
The truant child could see them still.

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH.

No rocks across the pathway lie,
No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown;
And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone.

Perhaps some lover trod the way,
With shaking knees and leaping heart;
And so it often runs astray,

With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain,
From some unholy banquet reeled ;
And since, our devious steps maintain
His track across the trodden field.

Nay, deem not thus: no earth-born will

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Could ever trace a faultless line;

Our truest steps are human still,
To walk unswerving were divine.

Truants from love, we dream of wrath;
O, rather let us trust the more!
Through all the wanderings of the path,
We still can see our Father's door!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

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I'VE set my heart upon nothing, you see:

Hurrah!

And so the world goes well with me:

Hurrah!

And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, Why, let him take hold and help me drain These mouldy lees of wine.

VANITAS.

I set my heart at first upon wealth:

Hurrah!

And bartered away my peace and health;
But ah!

The slippery change went about like air,
And when I had clutched a handful here,
Away it went there.

I set my heart upon woman next:
Hurrah!

For her sweet sake was oft perplexed;
But ah!

The false one looked for a daintier lot;
The constant one wearied me out and out;
The best was not easily got.

I set my heart upon travels grand:
Hurrah!

And spurned our plain old fatherland;

But ah!

Naught seemed to be just the thing it should : Most comfortless beds and indifferent food,

My tastes misunderstood.

I set my heart upon sounding fame:
Hurrah!

And, lo! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name;
And ah!

When in public life I loomed quite high,

The folk that passed me would look awry;
Their very worst friend was I.

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