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Earth not the Sphere of Souls. “PARENT of good! since all thy laws are just,
Say, why permits thy judging providence Oppression's hand to bow meek innocence, And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust? Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, That proudly wars against Omnipotence ? Who bids thy faithful sons,
that reverence Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust? Amid the din of joy fair Virtue sighs, While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls." Thus I ;—when radiant 'fore my wondering eyes A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said: “ Blind moralist! is Earth the sphere of souls ?”
B. L. ARGENSOLA, Trans. by HERBERT.
Each hath his Fortune in his Breast.
In vain do men The heavens of their fortune's fault accuse, Sith they know best what is the best for them;
For they to each such fortune do diffuse
As they do know each can most aptly use. For not that which men covet most is best,
Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse; But fittest is, that all contented rest With that they hold: each hath his fortune in It is the mind that maketh good or ill,
That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor; For some that hath abundance at his will,
Hath not enough, but wants in greater store;
And other, that hath little, asks no more, But in that little is both rich and wise;
For wisdom is most riches ; fools therefore They are which fortune do by vows devise, Sith each unto himself his life
fortunize. EDMUND SPENSER.
Ere long it Will be Day.
From man, and sin, and woe.
To know as angels know;
And be as angels pure.
Bliss unalloyed and sure.
Which good maintains with ill?
Be mine to wrestle still.
Can I his soldier be:
For Him who died for me.
Nor would I too impatient pry
The awful veil within ;
Of God-resisting sin.
For Heaven's own light to stay.
Early Calling AY, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes—but not for
thineSealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour: Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of
bloom Detach thy delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain ; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
As through an Alpine village pass'd
At break of day, as heavenward
Even her Foes Wept. G OD of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat
The fiery winds of desolation flow : Father of vengeance! that with purple feet,
Like a full wine-press treadst the world below; The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, Nor springs the beast of havoc on his
prey, Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way,
Till Thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe. God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign
The billows of the proud their rage suppress ; Father of mercies! at one word of thine
An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness !