THE HOLY SPIRIT.

The answer came in trumpet tone, "Mysterious are His ways;

In weakness is His glory shown,

And babes proclaim His praise.

"When to the first disciples' hearts The Holy spirit came,

It thrilled them to the lowest parts,

Through heart, and soul, and frame.
They who were wont with craven souls
In secret nooks to hide,

Hark, from their lips what thunder rolls
For Jesus crucified!

"Thus is it yet, ay, even now,
That souls are sanctified;

The tender air, the lighted brow,
No humble garb can hide.
God's Spirit makes the weakest strong,
The coward true and brave,

And bears his chosen ones along,

Triumphant o'er the grave."

33

Thinking and Working.

H, let your ceaseless thinking go,

Your thoughts are vain;

The bright brooks through the meadows flow,
Seeking the main,

And have no care. The April rains

Their green banks fill

And on they go, nor count their gains,
Yet warble still.

The bees go wandering here and there,
They have no lore;

If flowers are sweet, what do they care?
The fields have store

Of budding clover; yet this one
Sweet daffodil

Makes them content, while in the sun
They hum on still.

Go singing through the morning sheen,
And loss comes late.

THINKING AND WORKING.

The rose-tree gathers rain and light
And shapes its flower;

It drinks the crystal dew at night,
And, hour by hour,

It greens and grows, it knows not why;
Nor does it care

That you, so thoughtful, passing by,
Pronounce it fair.

The tender grass beneath your foot
Takes not a thought

Of how it strikes persistent root,
And murmurs not

Under your crushing step at morn,
But still looks up,

Nor grieves that brighter tints adorn
The lily's cup.

Oh, put your foolish fancies by,

It matters not;

Be sure how deep you delve, how high
May mount your thought;

The stars will shine above your head,
The flowers will bloom,

The fatal thunder-cloud will shed

Its bolts of doom.

The whether you shall think or no,
God writes his will

Plainly on human hearts, that so,

While singing still,

35

We may not leave our work. He gives
A subtile sense

To every trustful soul that lives,

It

That, working hence,

may not make mistake. What needs

The childlike soul

To know where all your questioning leads?
The wondrous whole

Is hidden from your searching ken;
But let it be,

God tells that to the hearts of men
They fail to see.

Be still, and listen in your soul
Where God shall speak;

Above your head the thunders roll
And you are weak;

But so are grasses, yet they grow

Greener for showers;

The end of toil we need not know

The task is ours.

Sometimes a hero prostrate lies —
Ah, well, what then?

We only know the spirit dies

From sight of men.

We know not what there is to do

Some otherwhere;

What realms to rule, what service new

Demands his care.

THINKING AND WORKING.

Then rest from questions and from doubt;
Work as you will,

But leave your selfish murmurings out,
And listen still

To hear the voice that will not cease

Forevermore

God's voice within that speaketh peace
Beyond all lore.

Ан, if thy fate, with anguish fraught,
Should be to wet the dusty soil

With the hot, burning tears of toil,
To struggle with imperious thought
Till the overburdened brain,
Heavy with labor, faint with pain,
Like a jarred pendulum, retain
Only its emotion, not its power;
Remember in that perilous hour,
When most afflicted and opprest,

From labor there shall come forth rest.