For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the jugglers leap-
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose

"Who giveth His beloved, sleep."

And friends, dear friends—when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say "Not a tear o'er her must fall-
He giveth His beloved, sleep."

E. B. Browning.

The Peace of God.

E ask for peace, O Lord!
Thy children ask Thy peace;
Not what the world calls rest,
That care and toil should cease,
That through bright sunny hours
Calm life should fleet away,

And tranquil night should end

In smiling day;

It is not for such peace

that we would pray.

We ask for peace, O Lord!

Yet not to stand secure,

Girt round with iron pride,
Contented to endure:

Crushing the gentle strings

That human hearts should know,
Untouched by others' joy

Or others' woe;—

Thou, O dear Lord, wilt never teach us so.

We ask Thy peace, O Lord!

Through storm, and fear, and strife,

To light and guide us on,

Through a long struggling life:

While no success or gain

Shall cheer the desperate fight,

Or nerve, what the world calls,

Our wasted might:

Yet pressing through the darkness to the light.

It is Thine own, O Lord,

Who toil while others sleep;

Who sow with loving care
What other hands shall reap:
They lean on Thee entranced,
In calm and perfect rest:
Give us that peace, O Lord,

Divine and blest,

Thou keepest for those hearts who love Thee best.

A. A. Proctor.

Prayer.

HEN prayer delights thee least, then learn

to say,

Soul, now is greatest need that thou should'st

pray.

Crooked and warped I am, and I would fain
Straighten myself by thy right line again.

Oh come, warm sun, and ripen my late fruits;
Pierce, genial showers, down to my parchéd roots.

My well is bitter; cast therein the tree,
That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be.

Say what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed?
The mighty utterance of a mighty need.

The man is praying, who doth press with might
Out of his darkness into God's own light.

While heat the iron in the furnace won,

Withdrawn from thence, 'twas cold and hard anon.

Flowers from their stalks divided, presently
Droop, fail, and wither in the gazer's eye.

The greenest leaf divided from its stem,
To speedy withering doth itself condemn.

The largest river from its fountain head
Cut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed.

All things that live from God their sustenance wait, And sun and moon are beggars at his gate.

All skirts extended of thy mantle hold,

When angel hands from heaven are scattering gold.

R. C. Trench.

The Cloud.

LITTLE cloud was fashioned
In a summer hour,
By the love impassioned
Of the sun and shower.
All day it basked in sunlight,
On the heaven's warm blue,
Round lilies through the dun night,
It hung in dew.

Once when dawn was leading
In the hot young day,
This little cloud speeding
Through the ether gray,
Seemed to float and sail

On the bright sky's bosom,
Like a dew-drop pale

On a blue-bell blossom.

So close under heaven
Did it glide and fleet,
That I thought it riven
By some angel's feet,
When the breezes parted
Its veiling screen,
And blue glimpses darted
Into sight between.

As I gazed came breathings
On a zephyr's wings,
As of wild wind-wreathings
Round Eolian strings;
'Twas a lark far hidden

Oh, it came down-streaming

The clear air along,

Like rills roused from dreaming,

Like a shower of song.

It made me glad and bright,

Brighter every minute,

Till I blessed the cloudlet white,

And the spirit in it.

Then the sun's noon splendour

Filled the cloud with light,

Though a soft and tender

Yet intensest white;