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Thy wanderings have been vaster far
Than midnight sun or southern star;
And thou, too, hast thy trophies won,
Of toils achieved and exploits done.

For thrice thy weary feet have trod
The pathway to the realms of Death;

And leaning on the hand of God,

With halting step and panting breath,

Thrice from the edge of that dread bourn,

From which no travellers return,

Thou hast, like him who rose at Nain,

Come back to life and light again.

Each winding of that mournful way,
Each inlet of that shadowy shore,

Through restless night and tedious day
'Twas thine to fathom and explore;

Through hairbreadth scapes and shocks as rude

As e'er are met in fire or flood,

Thou, in thy solitary strife,

Hast borne aloft thy charmed life.

Yet in this pilgrimage of ill

Sweet tracts and isles of peace were thine— Dear watchful friends, strong gentle skill,

Consoling words of Love Divine,
A Royal mother's ceaseless care,
A nation's sympathising prayer,
The Everlasting Arms beneath
That lightened even the load of death.

Those long descents, that upward climb,
Shall give an inward strength and force,

Breathed as by Alpine heights sublime
Through all thy dark and perilous course.
Not Afric's swamps nor Biscay's wave
Demand a heart more firm and brave,
Than may for thee be bor n and bred,
Even on thy sick and lonely bed.

And still as months and years roll by,
A world-wide prospect shall unfold—
The realm of art, the poet's sky,

The land of wisdom's purest gold.
These shalt thou traverse to and fro,
In search of these thy heart shall glow,
And many a straggler shall be led
To follow in thine onward tread.

'Hast Thou, O Father, dear and true,
One blessing only—none for me?

Bless, O my Father, bless me too,
Out of Thy boundless charity.'

Rest, troubled spirit, calmly rest;
He blesses, and thou shalt be blest;

And from thy hard-wrought happiness

Thou wilt the world around thee bless.

George Eliot.

Born 1820. Died 1881.

OH, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence: live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge man's search
To vaster issues.
So I ask Thee for the daily strength,

So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing as beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed, and agonised
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer self,
That sfbbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burthen of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better—saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love—
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread for ever.

This is life to come,
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

Anna Ljctitia Waring.

About 1850.

Thy Will Be Done.

FATHER, I know that all my life
Is portioned out for me,
And the changes that are sure to come

I do not fear to see;
But I ask Thee for a present mind,
Intent on pleasing Thee.

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise,

To meet the glad with joyful smiles
And to wipe the weeping eyes:

And a heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise.

I would not have the restless will

That hurries to and fro;
Seeking for some great thing to do,

A secret thing to know:
I would be treated as a child,

And guided where I go.

Wherever in the world I am,

In whatsoe'er estate,
I have a fellowship with men

To keep and cultivate,
And a work of lowly love to do,

For the Lord on whom I wait.

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To none that ask denied, And a mind to blend with outward strife

While keeping at Thy side; Content to fill a little space,

So Thou be glorified.

And if some things I do not ask

In my cup of blessing be,
I would have my spirit filled the more

With grateful love to Thee;
And careful, less to serve Thee much,

Than to please Thee perfectly.

There are briars besetting every path

That call for patient care; There is a cross in every lot,

And an earnest need for prayer; But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee,

Is happy anywhere.

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.

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