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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;

Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His work in vain;

God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

The Journey To Emmaus.

IT happened on a solemn eventide,
Soon after He that was our Surety died,
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,
The scene of all those sorrows left behind,
Sought their own village, busied as they went
In musings worthy of the great event:
They spake of Him they loved, of Him whose life,
Though blameless, had incurred perpetual strife,
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore,
The farther traced, enriched them still the more;
They thought Him, and they justly thought Him, one
Sent to do more than he appeared t' have done;
T' exalt a people, and to place them high
Above all else, and wondered He should die.
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,
A stranger joined them, courteous as a friend,
And asked them with a kind engaging air
What their affliction was, and begged a share.

Informed, he gathered up the broken thread,
And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said,
Explained, illustrated, and searched so well
The tender theme, on which they chose to dwell,
That reaching home, 'The night,' they said, 'is near,
We must not now be parted, sojourn here.'
The new acquaintance soon became a guest,
And, made so welcome at their simple feast,
He blessed the bread, but vanished at the word,
And left them both exclaiming, ''Twas the Lord!
Did not our hearts feel all He deigned to say,
Did they not burn within us by the way?'

From Conversation.

God In Creation.

There lives and works
A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
The beauties of the wilderness are His,
That make so gay the solitary place,
Where no eye sees them; and the fairer forms,
That cultivation glories in, are His.
He sets the bright procession on its way,
And marshals all the order of the year;
He marks the bounds that Winter may not pass,
And blunts his pointed fury; in its case,
Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ,
Uninjured, with inimitable art;
And ere one flowery season fades and dies,
Designs the blooming wonders of the next.
The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused,
Sustains, and is the life of all that lives.
Nature is but a name for an effect,
Whose cause is God .... One spirit—His,
Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows,
Rules universal nature. Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,

Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires

Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,

And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,

In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,

The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth.

Happy who walks with Him! whom what he finds

Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,

Or what he views of beautiful or grand

In nature, from the broad majestic oak,

To the green blade, that twinkles in the sun,

Prompts with remembrance of a present God.

From The Task.


T WAS a stricken deer, that left the herd

* Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed

My panting side was charged, when I withdrew

To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.

There was I found by One, who had Himself

Been hurt by the archers. In His side he bore,

And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars.

With gentle force soliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live.

Since then, with few associates, in remote

And sileht woods I wander, far from those

My former partners of the peopled scene;

With few associates, and not wishing more.

Here much I ruminate, as much I may,

With other views of men and manners now

Than once, and others of a life to come.

I see that all are wanderers, gone astray

Each in his own delusions; they are lost

In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd

And never won. Dream after dream ensues,

And still they dream that they shall still succeed,

And still are disappointed. Rings the world

With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,
And add two thirds of the remaining half,
And find the total of their hopes and fears
Dreams, empty dreams.

From The Task.

Grace And The World.

* A DIEU,' Vinoso cries, ere yet he sips
**. The purple bumper trembling at his lips,
'Adieu to all morality, if Grace
Make works a vain ingredient in the case.
My Christian hope is—Waiter, draw the cork—
If I mistake not—Blockhead! with a fork!—
Without good works, whatever some may boast,
Mere folly and delusion.—Sir, your toast.
My firm persuasion is, at least sometimes,
That Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his crimes
With nice attention, in a righteous scale,
And save or damn as these or those prevail.
I plant my foot upon this ground of trust,
And silence every fear with—God is just.
But if perchance on some dull drizzling day
A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say,
If thus the important cause is to be tried,
Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side;
I soon recover from these needless frights,
And God is merciful—sets all to rights.
Thus, between justice, as my prime support,
And mercy, fled to as the last resort,
I glide and steal along with heaven in view,
And—pardon me, the bottle stands with you.'

'I never will believe,' the colonel cries,
'The sanguinary schemes that some devise,
Who make the good Creator on their plan
A being of less equity than man.

If appetite, or what divines call lust,

Which men comply with, even because they must,

Be punished with perdition, who is pure?

Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure.

If sentence of eternal pain belong

To every sudden slip and transient wrong,

Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail

A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail.

My creed (whatever some creed-makers mean

By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene),

My creed is, he is safe that docs his best,

And death 's a doom sufficient for the rest.'

'Right', says an ensign, 'and for aught I see, Your faith and mine substantially agree; The best of every man's performance here Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. A lawyer's dealing should be just and fair, Honesty shines with great advantage there. Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest, A decent caution and reserve at least. A soldier's best is courage in the field, With nothing here that wants to be concealed: Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay; A hand as liberal as the light of day. The soldier thus endowed, who never shrinks Nor closets up his thought, whate'er he thinks, Who scorns to do an injury by stealth, Must go to heaven—and I must drink his health. Sir Smug,' he cries (for lowest at the board, Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord, His shoulders witnessing by many a shrug How much his feelings suffered, sat Sir Smug), 'Your office is to winnow false from true; Come, prophet, drink, and tell us, what think you?'

Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass, Which they that woo preferment rarely pass, 'Fallible man,' the church-bred youth replies, 'Is still found fallible, however wise;

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