212

PRAISE FOR AFFLICTIONS.

SUBMISSION TO AFFLICTIONS.

SWAINE.

THERE is a secret in the ways of God,

With his own children, which none others know,
That sweetens all he does; and if such peace,
While under his afflicting hand, we find,
What will it be to see him as he is,

And past the reach of all that now disturbs
The tranquil soul's repose? to contemplate,
In retrospect unclouded, all the means
By which his wisdom has prepared his saints
For the vast weight of glory which remains?
Come, then, Affliction, if my Father bids,

And be my frowning friend: a friend that frowns
Is better than a smiling enemy.

PRAISE FOR AFFLICTIONS.

CAROLINE FRY.

FOR what shall I praise thee, my God and my King? For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring? Shall I praise thee for pleasure, for health, or for ease? For the spring of delight and the sunshine of peace?

Shall I praise thee for flowers that bloom on my breast?

For joys in perspective, and pleasures possessed?
For the spirits that brightened my days of delight,
And the slumbers that sat on my pillow by night?

For this I should praise thee; but only for this,
I should leave half untold the donation of bliss:
I thank thee for sickness, for sorrow, for care,
For the thorns I have gathered, the anguish I bear ;-

For nights of anxiety, watchings, and tears,
A present of pain, a perspective of fears:

I praise thee, I bless thee, my King and my God,
For the good and the evil thy hand hath bestowed.

The flowers were sweet, but their fragrance is flown;
They yielded no fruit; they are withered and gone :
The thorn it was poignant, but precious to me;
'Twas the message of mercy-it led me to thee.

"It is with the wind and storm of tribulation that God, in the garner of the soul, separates the true wheat from the chaff. Always remember, therefore, that God comes to thee in thy sorrows, as really as in thy joys. He lays low, and he builds up. Hold thy peace, and let thyself be guided by the hand of God; suffer in patience, and walk on in strong faith. Desire of God only one thing that thou mayst spend thy life for his sake in true obedience and subjection. The way in which our blessed Savior trod was not one of softness and sweetness."-MOLINOS.

214

SONG OF DEATH.

SONG OF DEATH.

ANONYMOUS.

SHRINK not, O human spirit;
The everlasting arm is strong to save :
Look up, look up, frail nature; put thy trust
In Him who went down mourning to the dust,
And overcame the grave.

Quickly goes down the sun;
Life's work is almost done;

Fruitless endeavor, hope deferred, and strife;
One little struggle more,

One pang, and then is o'er

All the long, mournful weariness of life.
Kind friends, 'tis almost past;
Come now, and look your last;
Sweet children, gather near,

And his last blessing hear;

See how he loved you who departeth now;
And with thy trembling step and pallid brow,
O most beloved one,

Whose breast he leaned upon,

Come, faithful unto death,

Receive his parting breath;

The fluttering spirit panteth to be free.
Hold him not back who speeds to victory.

The bonds are riven, the struggling soul is free.

Hail, hail, enfranchised spirit,

Thou that the wine press of the field hast trod ;
On, blest immortal, on through boundless space,
And stand with thy Redeemer face to face,
And stand before thy God.
Life's weary work is o'er;

Thou art of earth no more;

No more art trammelled by th' oppressive clay, But tread'st with wingéd ease

The high acclivities

Of truths sublime, up heaven's crystalline way.

Here no bootless guest;

The city's name is Rest;
Here shall no fear appall;

Here love is all in all;

Here shalt thou win thy ardent soul's desire,
Here clothe thee in thy beautiful attire.

Lift, lift thy wondering eyes;

Yonder is paradise ;

And this fair, shining band

Are spirits of thy land;

And these that throng to meet thee are thy kin, Who have awaited thee redeemed from sin.

The city's gates unfold: enter, O, enter in.

No more! a harpstring's deep, sad, breaking tone,
A last, low summer breeze, a far-off knell,

A dying echo of rich music gone,

Breathe through those words, those murmurs of

farewell,

No more!

To dwell in peace with home affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,
To feel the spirit of her love around,

And in the blessing of her age rejoice,

No more!

A dirge-like sound!- to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,

Or join the household laughter by the blaze,

No more!

Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove,

With all our native music in the air;

To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,

And turn and meet our own heart's answer there,

No more!