PASSING AND GLASSING.

A

LL things that pass

Are woman's looking-glass;

They show her how her bloom must fade,

And she herself be laid

With withered roses in the shade;

With withered roses and the fallen peach,

Unlovely, out of reach

Of summer joy that was.

All things that pass

Are woman's tiring-glass;

The faded lavender is sweet,

Sweet the dead violet

Culled and laid by and cared for yet;

The dried-up violets and dried lavender

Still sweet, may comfort her,

Nor need she cry Alas!

All things that pass

Are wisdom's looking-glass;

Being full of hope and fear, and still

Brimful of good or ill,

According to our work and will;

For there is nothing new beneath the sun;

Our doings have been done,

And that which shall be was.

"I WILL ARISE."

EARY and weak,

WEAR

accept my weariness;

Weary and weak and downcast in my soul,

With hope growing less and less,

And with the goal

Distant and dim, — accept my sore distress.

I thought to reach the goal so long ago,

At outset of the race I dreamed of rest,

Not knowing what now I know

Of breathless haste,

Of long-drawn straining effort across the waste.

One only thing I knew, Thy love of me ;

One only thing I know, Thy sacred same Love of me full and free,

A craving flame

Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee.

How can I think of thee, and yet grow chill;

Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death? Re-energize my will,

Rebuild my faith;

I will arise and run, Thou giving me breath.

I will arise, repenting and in pain;

I will arise, and smite upon my breast

And turn to Thee again;

Thou choosest best,

Lead me along the road Thou makest plain.

Lead me a little way, and carry me

A little way, and listen to my sighs,

And store my tears with Thee,

And deign replies

To feeble prayers; -O Lord, I will arise.

A PRODIGAL SON.

OES that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?

I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?

Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;

In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,

I watch his lambs that browse and leap.

There is plenty of bread at home,

His servants have bread enough and to spare ;

The purple wine-fat froths with foam,

Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.

Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:

"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me, Father, a servant's place."