It is not what our avarice hoards up;
'T is he that feeds us, and that fills our cup:
Like new-born babes, depending on the breast,
From day to day we on his bounty feast.
Nor should the soul expect above a day
To dwell in her frail tenement of clay :
The setting sun should seem to bound our race,
And the new day a gift of special grace.
That he should all our trespasses forgive,
While we in hatred with our neighbors live;
Though so to pray may seem an easy task,
We curse ourselves when thus inclined we ask:
This prayer to use, we ought with equal care
Our souls as to the sacrament prepare.
The noblest worship of the Power above,
Is to extol, and imitate, his love :
Not to forgive our enemies alone,
But use our bounty that they may be won.
Guard us from all temptations of the foe,
And those we may in several stations know;
The rich and poor in slippery places stand:
Give us enough, but with a sparing hand:
Not ill-persuading want, nor wanton wealth,
But what proportioned is to life and health ;
For not the dead, but living, sing thy praise,
Exalt thy kingdom, and thy glory raise.
EDMUND WALLER.
To prayer; for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on;
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are
bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.
There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
To prayer; for the day that God has blest
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom ;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours.
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
Oh, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ;
Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care.
There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand :
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parent and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful pair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.
SEASONS OF PRAYER.
The voice of prayer at the sable bier!
To prayer, to prayer; - for the morning A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.
breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above, -
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
Oh, then, on the breath of this early air
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.
It commends the spirit to God who gave ;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where he shall reign,
Who whispered, "Thy brother shall rise
again."
Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow;
Oh, what are earth and its pleasures now!
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?
Kneel down by the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends;
There is peace in his eye that upward bends
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;
For his last thoughts are God's, his last words
prayer.
The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransomed shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise,
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.
Awake, awake! and gird up thy strength,
To join that holy band at length!
To him who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly
praise, -
To him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.
HENRY WARE, JR.
IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN.
LORD! who art merciful as well as just,
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust!
Not what I would, O Lord! I offer thee,
Alas! but what I can.
Father Almighty, who hast made me man,
And bade me look to heaven, for thou art there,
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer.
Four things which are not in thy treasury,
I lay before thee, Lord, with this petition:
My nothingness, my wants,
My sins, and my contrition.
THE FORCE OF PRAYER.
"WHAT is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale;
And their meaning is, "Whence can comfort
When prayer is of no avail?"
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
The falconer to the lady said;
And she made answer, "Endless sorrow!"
For she knew that her son was dead.
She knew it by the falconer's words,
And from the look of the falconer's eye;
And from the love that was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.
-Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash,
To let slip on buck and doe.
And the pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
This striding-place is called the "Strid,"
A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across the "Strid"?
The stately priory was reared,
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.
And the lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh, there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of him to be our friend!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
THE PRAYERS I MAKE.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed,
If thou the spirit give by which I pray;
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed;
Of good and pious works thou art the seed
That quickens only where thou say'st it may.
Unless thou show to us thy own true way,
No man can find it: Father! thou must lead;
Do thou then breathe those thoughts into
my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ;
The fetters of my tongue do thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing to thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Translated by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Walk with thy fellow-creatures: note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring
Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not
Oh, leave thy cares and follies! go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. Serve God before the world; let him not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto him, and remember who
Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. Mornings are mysteries: the world's first youth,
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,
Is styled their star, the store and hidden
EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. WHEN first thine eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. Give him thy first thoughts, then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in him sleep.
Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should Dawn with the day; there are set awful hours 'Twixt Heaven and us; the manna was not good
After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers. Rise to prevent the sun: sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when this world's is
WILT thou not visit me?
The plant beside me feels thy gentle dew;
Each blade of grass I see
From thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.
Wilt thou not visit me?
Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone, And every hill and tree
Lend but one voice, the voice of thee alone.
Come for I need thy love,
More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain;
Come, like thy holy dove, And let me in thy sight rejoice to live again.
I will not hide from them,
When thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath;
But bow with leafy stem,
And strengthened follow on thy chosen path.
I take Thou canst not say I took it not! The record readeth fair.
I take and use, and come again to crave,
With weary hands and feet, but spirit brave,-
The same thing lieth there.
So many times! ah me! so many times!
The same hand gives the gift;
And must I, till the evening shadows grow,
Still kneel before an everlasting No,
To see the other lift?
I ask for bread; thou givest me a stone;
Oh, give the other now!
Thou knowest, thou, the spirit's bitter need,
The day grows sultry as I come to plead
With dust on hand and brow.
Ah, fool! is He not greater than thy heart?
His eyes are kindest still.
And seeing all, he surely knoweth best ;
Oh, if no other, know the perfect rest
Of yielding to his will.
Perchance he knows-canst thou not trust
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.co.th/books/content?id=bjgUAAAAYAAJ&hl=th&output=html_text&pg=PA551&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:ISBN0870660012&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3pCM4qt4PYn98YbKQ2xJyb1w5IXw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=105,1241,399,138)
HAST THOU WITHIN A CARE SO
DEEP?
HAST thou within a care so deep,
It chases from thine eyelids sleep?
To thy Redeemer take that care,
And change anxiety to prayer.
Hast thou a hope with which thy heart
Would almost feel it death to part?
Entreat thy God that hope to crown,
Or give thee strength to lay it down.
Hast thou a friend whose image dear
May prove an idol worshipped here?
Implore the Lord that nought may be
A shadow between Heaven and thee.
Whate'er the care that breaks thy rest,
Whate'er the wish that swells thy breast,
Spread before God that wish, that care,
And change anxiety to prayer.
Thou Conqueror of death,
Glorious Triumpher o'er the grave,
Whose holy breath
Was spent to save
Lost mankind, make me to be styled
Thy child,
And take me when I die
And go unto my dust; my soul
Above the sky
With saints enroll,
LORD, what a change within us one short hour
Spent in thy presence will prevail to make!
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take,
What parched grounds revive, as with a shower!
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower;
We rise, and all, the distant and the near,
Stands forth a sunny outline brave and clear.
We kneel, how weak! We rise, how full of
power!
PRAYER.
WHEN prayer delights thee least, then learn
to say,
Soul, now is greatest need that thou shouldst Why, wherefore should we do ourselves this
pray.
wrong,
That in thy arms, forever, I
Crooked and warped I am, and I would fain
Straighten myself by thy right line again.
THE EFFECTS OF PRAYER.
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, a learned divine of the English Church, was born at Dublin, Sept. 9, 1807. Formerly Dean of Westminster, he is now Archbishop of Dublin. He has been a diligent student of language, and has translated from the Latin, German, and Spanish. His "Study of Words" and "Lessons in Proverbs " are widely read His poems were published in 1865. Among his other works are "The Synonymes of the New Testament," a volume of Latin poetry, and the "Parables" and "Miracles" of Christ.
|