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UNBELIEF.

This is to do God's will
On earth-and to fulfill

Our heavenly calling.

UNBELIEF.

THERE is no unbelief;

Whoever plants a leaf beneath the sod,
And waits to see it push away the clod,
Trusts he in God.

Whoever says, when clouds are in the sky,
"Be patient, heart! light breaketh by-and-by!"
Trusts the Most High.

Whoever sees, 'neath winter's field of snow,
The silent harvest of the future grow,
God's power must know.

Whoever lies down on his couch to sleep,

Content to lock each sense in slumber deep,
Knows God will keep.

Whoever says "To-morrow," "The unknown," "The future," trusts that Power alone

He dares disown.

The heart that looks on when the eyelids close,
And dares to live when life has only woes,
God's comfort knows.

There is no unbelief;

And day by day, and night, unconsciously,

The heart lives by that faith the lips deny;
God knoweth why.

1876.

GREAT Year! how shall we fit thee for thy grave?
What further honors can we pay to thee,
Who every day, in song and minstrelsy,
And loud orations at the cannon's mouth

Have given thee homage? East and North and South,
And the far West, whose purple mountains lie,
Snow-capped, sun-tinged, against th' eternal sky,
Have joined their hands, and raised one joyous shout,
While in their monument of industry

They welcomed every nation 'neath the sun
To bring their best, and, proud or envious, see
What Freedom and a hundred years have done.

They came, they shared our glory, and they left;
Their friendly feelings ripened into love;

88

THE INNER SANCTUARY.

They taught us lessons that the

years should
Of priceless value. What, indeed, are we
But children in the world's great history?
Yet holding in our conscious strength sublime
The grandest possibilities of Time.

prove

Shorn of our small conceits, we stand in tears,
And tender memories linked with every clime,
Beside thy bier, thou fairest of the years,
Resolving, with a glad unfettered will,
To make the coming century grander still.

ANNE F. BRADLEY.

THE INNER SANCTUARY.

THERE is a holy temple,

A sacred house of God!
By human hands not builded,
By human feet ne'er trod.

No voice of priest or preacher
Is heard its aisles among;
No lofty strains of music

Within its walls are sung;

No richly furnished altar

Stands forth in vain array;

THE INNER SANCTUARY.

Through many-colored windows
No tinted sunbeams play.

But yet a wondrous structure,
Beyond all mortal art;
Its architect, Jehovah!

Its place, the human heart!

This holy fane is open

By night as well as day; The Master bids us enter— He gently leads the way.

There He is ever waiting

Our worship to receive,
Our fainting souls to strengthen,
Our sorrows to relieve.

There, in His holy presence,
True peace alone we find,
When, its sacred portals ent'ring,

We leave the world behind.

89

R. T.