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Is the humblest he can speak? -
Ye who live on mountain-peak,

Yet live low along the ground beside the grasses

meek.

Mountain-gorses, since Linnæus

Knelt beside you on the sod,

For your beauty thanking God,

For your teaching, ye should see us

Bowing in prostration new.

Whence arisen, - if one or two

Drops be on our cheeks, - O world! they are

not tears, but dew.

Mrs. Browning.

M

19. PEACE.

Y soul, there is a country
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry,
All skilful in the wars:

There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles;

And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,

And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst but get thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress and thy ease.
Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure,
But One who never changes, -
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure!

Henry Vaughan.

20. ANGEL-CHILDREN.

NCE I took a picture fair

To my heart, and kept it there;

And I blessed the artist's thought
Who that lovely picture wrought.
Even as I saw it then,
Now it comes to me again.

Three small children on their knees,
Under drooping willow-trees :
Pleased and shy, they bend to look
In the mirror of the brook.

Not a flower upon the brink
Bending gracefully to drink,
Not a bird that skims the lake,

Softer shadowing could make,
Nor behold reflected there
Form more innocent and fair.

What beside those faces three
In that mirror do they see?
All the blue depths of the sky
In its waters they descry;
And not theirs alone, but near
Other faces, three, appear, -
Angel-faces, dimly seen,
Serious, tender, and serene;
Bending meekly, bearing trace
Of the heavenly Father's face:
This is why the children look
Pleased, yet thoughtful, in the brook.

Unto little children here
Seraph-forms are always near;
Messages of heavenly things
Angel-child to earth-child brings:
So I blessed the hand that wrought
Into form the shadowy thought.

Mrs. Wells.

I

21. THE BETTER LAND.

HEAR thee speak of the better land; Thou call'st its children a happy band. Mother, oh! where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle

boughs?

Not there, not there, my child!

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?
Not there, not there, my child!

Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold; Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand: Is it there, sweet mother, that better land? Not there, not there, my child!

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy; Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;

Dreams cannot picture a world so fair;
Sorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!

Mrs. Hemans.

W

22. WE SCATTER SEEDS.

E scatter seeds with careless hand,

And dream we shall ne'er see them

more;

But for a thousand years
Their fruit appears

In weeds that mar the land

Or healthful store.

The deeds we do, the words we say,

Into still air they seem to fleet;

We count them ever past:

But they shall last;

In the dread judgment, they

And we shall meet.

Lyra Innocentium.

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