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Each Hope that stood with angel-finger spired
And pointing to the illimitable sky,
Revealed in tones with inspiration fired
The Soul's great destiny;

All to that unbelieving heart had died,
Filling with spectral shapes the haunted breast,
And left him in the midnight, sorely tried,
Watching their awful rest.

Grave seemed to shout to grave like deep to deep,
The blind worms revelled in the festering sod,
And a voice came, as death comes following sleep,
"There is no Soul, no God!"

"No Soul, no God!" this wail for evermore
Beat, surging o'er his rigid lips of stone,
Like the wild breakers, on some wintry shore,
Making perpetual moan.

Wondering I gazed and mused and wept the while,
When, lo! a seraph passed before my face,
And the calm beauty of his peaceful smile
With day filled all the place.

"Would'st know," he said, "why Pain and Fear and Night

With dark and desolate pinions o'er him sweep? Learn thou that Sin clouds heaven from human sight: He sowed as he doth reap!

"Doubt is the eternal shade by Evil cast!
'The vision and the faculty divine'
Fail when the spirit o'er its empire vast

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Thrones Appetite and Crime.

Only the ear in chord with goodness grown, Hears the full tide of Truth's immortal hymn, The heart where living virtues bloom alone, God's angels enter in!

"Write the great law in alphabet of flame, Sound it with prophecy and psalm abroad; Doubt's awful tempests veil the tents of shame : The pure alone see God!

THOMAS L. HARRIS.

THE DEAD.

THE dead alone are great!

While heavenly plants abide on earth,
The soil is one of dewless death;

But when they die, a mourning shower

Comes down and makes their memories flower With odors sweet though late.

The dead alone are fair!

While they are with us, strange lines play

Before our eyes, and chase away

God's light; but let them pale and die,
And swell the stores of memory —
There is no envy there.

The dead alone are dear!

While they are here, long shadows fall
From our own forms, and darken all;
But when they leave us, all the shade
Is round our own sad footsteps made,
And they are bright and clear.

The dead alone are blest!

While they are here, clouds mar the day,
And bitter snow-falls nip their May;
But when the tempest-time is done,
The light and heat of Heaven's own sun
Broods on their land of rest.

HENRY ALFORD.

PROMISED LIGHT.

"AT evening time it shall be light."
I thank Thee for thy promise, Lord;
Through all this weary darkling fight
What comfort these sweet words afford!

"At evening time it shall be light."
Then why, my soul, so sad and low?
Strengthen thyself in heaven-sprung might,
And on thy way rejoicing go.

"At evening time it shall be light."

Then how canst thou e'er dare to fear,
Though now the sky may not be bright
No kindly hand or voice be near?

Although the tempest round thee roar,

And thou mayst seem forsaken quite, Yet cheer, faint heart, 'twill soon be o'er : "At evening time it shall be light."

The clouds that hide the sun all day,
And keep his glories from our sight,
As night draws on, shall melt away,
"At evening time it shall be light."

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The grain that in a thousand grains revives
The trees that seem in wintry torpor dead

Yet each new year renewing their green lives;
All teach, without the added aid of Faith,
That life still triumphs o'er apparent death!

But dies the insect when the summer dies;

The grain hath perished, though the plant remain ;

In death, at last, the oak of ages lies;

Here Reason halts, nor further can attain,

For Reason argues but from what she sees,
Nor traces to their goal these mysteries.

But Faith the dark hiatus can supply –
Teaching, eternal progress still shall reign;
Telling (as these things aid her to espy)

In higher worlds that higher laws obtain ;
Pointing, with radiant finger raised on high,
From life that still revives, to life that cannot die!

CHRISTIAN TRUST.

GIVE to the winds thy fears;

Hope and be undismayed;

God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears;

God shall lift up thy head.

Through waves, through clouds and storms,

He gently clears thy way;
Wait thou His time; so shall the night
Soon end in joyous day.

He everywhere hath way,

And all things serve His might;

His every act pure blessing is,

His paths, unsullied light.
When He makes bare His arm,

What shall His work withstand?

When He His people's cause defends,
Who, who shall stay His hand?

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