How soon that tall and deep-voiced man Or we be stretching empty hands More gently we should chide the noise, THE aged Christian stands upon the shore Filled with the treasures of rich heavenly lore. A journey crowned with blessings to the last. WORDSWORTH. THE OLDEST STORY. 213 THE OLDEST STORY. UNDER the coverlet's snowy fold The tiniest stir that ever was seen, And the tiniest sound, as if fairy folk Were cuddling under a leaf, I ween. That is the Baby; he came to town But he looks as wise as if he knew All that a baby can ever know. There he lies in a little heap, As soft as velvet, as warm as toast; As rosy-red as the harvest-moon Which I saw so big on the hazy coast. Hear him gurgle and sputter, and sigh, Were only meant for his littleness' sake. Blink, little eyes, at the strange new light; 214 THE OLDEST STORY. Wonderful things shall you see and hear, As the days and the months and the years go Hardly you seem a Life at all; Only a Something with hands and feet; Only a Feeling that things are warm; Only a Longing for something to eat. Have you a thought in your downy head? It's only a little that we can guess, But it's quite as much as we care to know; The rest will come with the fleeting years, Little by little, and better so. round. Enough for the day is the good thereof; THE UNITY OF THE SPIRIT. 215 THE UNITY OF THE SPIRIT. I HAVE one creed, and that is ever duty; I have one faith, and that I hold with meekness, May be confirmed with God's own strength divine. I find one joy, and that in serving others; I know one peace, and that a conscience pure; I love one fellowship, and that with brothers Whose life doth mine to nobler tasks allure. I worship one, Him, only God, adoring, To whom heaven's hosts their endless homage pay; I follow one, His guidance safe imploring, Thus worshipping, believing, loving, hoping, Though oft in devious paths alone I've trod, C. A. HUMPHREYS. 216 TEACH US TO WAIT! TEACH US TO WAIT! WHY are we so impatient of delay, We are too hasty; are not reconciled To let kind nature do her work alone; We plant our seed, and like a foolish child' We dig it up to see if it has grown. The good that is to be we covet now, We cannot wait for the appointed hour; Before the fruit is ripe we shake the bough, And seize the bud that folds away the flower. When midnight darkness reigns we do not see We cannot think our own sharp agony May be the birth-pang of a joy unborn. Into the dust we see our idols cast, And cry, that death has triumphed, life is void! We do not trust the promise, that the last Of all our enemies shall be destroyed! |