BE NEAR ME WHEN MY LIGHT IS LOW..

Be near me when my light is low,

When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,

And all the wheels of Being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame

Is racked with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,

And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,

And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing,
And weave their petty cells, and die.

Be near me when I fade away,

To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day.

DO WE INDEED DESIRE THE DEAD?

Do we indeed desire the dead

Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread?

Shall he for whose applause I strove,
I had such reverence for his blame, -
See with clear eyes some hidden shame,
And I be lessened in his love?

I wrong the grave with fears untrue:

Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death : The dead shall look me through and through.

Be near us when we climb or fall:

Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
With larger, other eyes than ours,

To make allowance for us all.

- Not for that we would be unclothed, but clothed upon, that mortality might be swallowed up of life. —2 COR. ii. 4.

IN health, O Lord, and prosperous days,
When worldly wealth or worldly praise,
When worldly thoughts have filled our heart,
We would not from the body part;
And then the very thought is loathed,
That we must be by death unclothed.

In sickness, sorrow, or in shame,
We fain would quit this mortal frame;
But thus to shrink from toil and pain,
This is not longing for thy reign:
Brought low, we only seek to be
Unclothed, not clothed upon by thee.

O rather help us as we ought
To feel what thine Apostle taught,
That not for aye we seek to wear
This form of clay, corruption's heir,
Nor yet impatient ask alone

To be unclothed, but clothed upon !

THE SICK ROOM.

WATCHING, through the silent hours,
By the unrefreshed bed,
Where disease arrays his powers,
Whence repose is banishèd,
Where time halteth, sad and slow,
Thou art with me, Lord, I know.

When the vital forces seem
Dwindled to as faint a spark
As the taper's sickly gleam,

Making darkness doubly dark, — Lord! I bless thee that thou art Near, to stay the sinking heart.

When the flame, reviving, burns Gently, and at sleep's soft touch Anguish yields, and hope returns, Dove-like, to the smoothed couch,With an anxious deep-drawn sigh, Lord, I praise thee, ever nigh.

The Sick Room.

In the dim religious gloom,

Where 'expressive silence' broods
O'er the closely curtained room,

Nor a stirring breath intrudes,
As in silent prayer I kneel,
Thou art present, Lord, I feel.

When reluctant hope is fled,

When the pulses beat no more, And the last farewell is said,

And the war of life is o'er,
Lord, both the spirit and the dust
Of our beloved, to thee we trust.