By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove!

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust;
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die ;
And thou hast made him thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,

The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;

They have their day and cease to be; They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith; we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see ; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness let it grow!

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell, That mind and soul, according well, May make one music, as before :

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear;
But help thy foolish ones to bear,
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light!

Peace! be Still!

7

PEACE! BE STILL!

MID the gay and noisy throng
Around me fluttering, wheeling,

shining,

My ears are filled with shout and song,
But yet my soul is still repining.

In every face around I see

Some heart-felt curse in silence working; Each eye reflects my sins on me,

And shows me all within me lurking.

Mid bounding joy, and passion's glow, Mid sportive bursts of mutual gladness, Thin shades arise from far below,

Where boils a secret gulf of madness.

A quivering cheek, a faltering glance,
One throb, one sigh, the whole revealing;
In all the flashing, whirling dance,

I see a world of shipwreck reeling.

And 'tis the worst despair to know,
By pangs within my bosom aching,

How deep in each the root of woe, How many a heart is slowly breaking.

But while my sad bewildered view
The wide confusion vainly traces,
One look I see serenely true,

Among the false and loveless faces.

Like yon blue sky, when first it shows

The storm-tost ship how Heaven hath pity; Or some pure mountain breeze that blows Its healing o'er a plague-struck city.

A voice not loud, like wind or wave,

A look made low by conscious greatness, Where all is calm, and deep, and grave, With a full soul's mature sedateness.

By Him subdued to thought and peace, The crowd no more in tumult wander; The sounds of surging riot cease,

And hearts high swoln devoutly ponder.

By His mild glance and sober power
Renewed to tranquil aspiration,
My soul escapes the reckless hour,

And learns his spirit's pure elation.

The Pilgrimage.

THE PILGRIMAGE.

TRAVELLED on, seeing the hill where lay

My expectation:

A long it was and weary way:

The gloomy Cave of Desperation
I left on the one, and on the other side
The Rock of Pride.

And so I came to Fancy's Meadow, strowed With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,

But I was quickened by my hour:

So to Care's Copse I came, and there got through

With much ado.

That led me to the Wild of Passion, which
Some call the Wold,-

A wasted place, but sometime rich:
Here I was robbed of all my gold,
Save one good angel, which a friend had tied
Close to my side.