Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul

by Unknown

CONTENTMENT

Father, I know that all my life

Is portioned out for me,

And the changes that are sure to come

I do not fear to see;

I ask Thee for a patient mind,

Intent on pleasing thee.

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,

Through constant watching wise,

To meet the glad with joyful smiles,

And wipe the weeping eyes,

And a heart, at leisure from itself,

To soothe and sympathize.

I would not have the restless will

That hurries to and fro,

Seeking for some great thing to do,

Or secret thing to know;

I would be treated as a child,

And guided where I go.

Wherever in this world I am,

In whatsoe'er estate,

I have a fellowship with hearts

To keep and cultivate,

And a work of lowly love to do

For the Lord on whom I wait.

So I ask Thee for the daily strength—

To none that ask denied—

And a mind to blend with outward life,

While keeping at thy side,

Content to fill a little space,

If thou be glorified.

And if some things I do not ask

In my cup of blessing be,

I would have my spirit filled the more

With grateful love to thee;

More careful not to serve thee much,

But to please thee perfectly.

There are briers besetting every path,

Which call for constant care;

There is a cross in every lot,

And an earnest need for prayer;

But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee,

Is happy everywhere.

In a service which Thy love appoints

There are no bonds for me,

For my secret heart has learned the truth

Which makes thy children free,

And a life of self-renouncing love

Is a life of liberty.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

———

TWO PICTURES

An old farm house with meadows wide,

And sweet with clover on each side;

A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out

The door with woodbine wreathed about,

And wishes his one thought all day:

"O if I could but fly away!

From this dull spot the world to see,

How happy, happy, happy,

How happy I should be!"

Amid the city's constant din,

A man who round the world has been,

Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng,

Is thinking, thinking all day long:

"O could I only tread once more

The field-path to the farm-house door,

The old green meadow could I see,

How happy, happy, happy,

How happy I should be!"

—Annie Douglas Robinson.

———

Happy the man, of mortals happiest he,

Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free;

Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears torment,

But lives in peace, within himself content;

In thought, or act, accountable to none

But to himself, and unto God alone.

—Henry P. F. Lansdowne.

———

CONTENT I LIVE

My mind to me a kingdom is;

Such perfect joy therein I find

As far exceeds all earthly bliss

That God or nature hath assigned:

Though much I want that most would have,

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live; this is my stay—

I seek no more than may suffice.

I press to bear no haughty sway;

Look, what I lack my mind supplies.

Lo, thus I triumph like a king,

Content with what my mind doth bring.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain;

No worldly wave my mind can toss;

I brook that as another's bane.

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend.

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;

My conscience clear my chief defense;

I never seek by bribes to please

Nor by desert to give offense.

Thus do I live, thus will I die;

Would all did so, as well as I.

—Edward Dyer. Alt. by William Byrd (1540-1625).

———

JUST AS GOD LEADS

Just as God leads me I would go;

I would not ask to choose my way;

Content with what he will bestow,

Assured he will not let me stray.

So, as he leads, my path I make,

And step by step I gladly take—

A child, in him confiding.

Just as God leads I am content;

I rest me calmly in his hands;

That which he has decreed and sent—

That which his will for me commands—

I would that he should all fulfill,

That I should do his gracious will

In living or in dying.

Just as God leads, I all resign;

I trust me to my Father's will;

When reason's rays deceptive shine,

His counsel would I yet fulfill;

That which his love ordained as right

Before he brought me to the right

My all to him resigning.

Just as God leads me, I abide

In faith, in hope, in suffering true;

His strength is ever by my side—

Can aught my hold on him undo?

I hold me firm in patience, knowing

That God my life is still bestowing—

The best in kindness sending.

Just as God leads I onward go,

Out amid thorns and briers keen;

God does not yet his guidance show—

But in the end it shall be seen.

How, by a loving Father's will,

Faithful and true, he leads me still.

And so my heart is resting.

—From the German.

———

SWEET CONTENT

O Thou, by long experience tried,

Near whom no grief can long abide;

My Lord, how full of sweet content

I pass my years of banishment!

All scenes alike engaging prove

To souls impressed with sacred love!

Where'er they dwell they dwell in Thee

In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.

To me remains nor place nor time,

My country is in every clime;

I can be calm and free from care

On any shore, since God is there.

While place we seek, or place we shun,

The soul finds happiness in none;

But with a God to guide our way

'Tis equal joy to go or stay.

Could I be cast where Thou art not,

That were indeed a dreadful lot;

But regions none remote I call,

Secure of finding God in all.

—Madame Guyon.

———

CONTENT AND RICH

My conscience is my crown,

Contented thoughts my rest;

My heart is happy in itself,

My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth;

A mean, the surest lot;

That lies too high for base contempt,

Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,

All easy to fulfill;

I make the limits of my power

The bounds unto my will.

I feel no care of coin;

Well doing is my wealth;

My mind to me an empire is,

While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts,

The wings of swelling pride;

Their fall is worst that from the height

Of greatest honor slide.

Since sails of largest size

The storm doth soonest tear,

I bear so low and small a sail

As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage

While fury's flame doth burn;

It is in vain to stop the stream

Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,

And ebbing wrath doth end,

I turn a late enragèd foe

Into a quiet friend.

And, taught with often proof,

A tempered calm I find

To be most solace to itself,

Best cure for angry mind.

No change of fortune's calms

Can cast my comforts down;

When Fortune smiles I smile to think

How quickly she will frown.

And when in froward mood

She proves an angry foe,

Small gain I found to let her come,

Less loss to let her go.

—Robert Southwell, 1561-95. (One of the Jesuit Fathers who were cruelly executed by Queen Elizabeth.)

———

Don't lose Courage! Spirit brave

Carry with you to the grave.

Don't lose Time in vain distress!

Work, not worry, brings success.

Don't lose Hope! who lets her stray

Goes forlornly all the way.

Don't lose Patience, come what will!

Patience ofttimes outruns skill.

Don't lose Gladness! every hour

Blooms for you some happy flower.

Though be foiled your dearest plan,

Don't lose Faith in God and man!

———

A CONTRAST

Two men toiled side by side from sun to sun,

And both were poor;

Both sat with children, when the day was done,

About their door.

One saw the beautiful in crimson cloud

And shining moon;

The other, with his head in sadness bowed,

Made night of noon.

One loved each tree and flower and singing bird,

On mount or plain;

No music in the soul of one was stirred

By leaf or rain.

One saw the good in every fellow-man

And hoped the best;

The other marvelled at his Master's plan,

And doubt confessed.

One, having heaven above and heaven below,

Was satisfied;

The other, discontented, lived in woe,

And hopeless died.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

WHO BIDES HIS TIME

Who bides his time, and day by day

Faces defeat full patiently,

And lifts a mirthful roundelay

However poor his fortunes be—

He will not fail in any qualm

Of poverty; the paltry dime—

It will grow golden in his palm

Who bides his time.

Who bides his time—he tastes the sweet

Of honey in the saltest tear;

And though he fares with slowest feet

Joy runs to meet him drawing near;

The birds are heralds of his cause,

And like a never-ending rhyme

The roadsides bloom in his applause

Who bides his time.

Who bides his time, and fevers not

In a hot race that none achieves,

Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wrought

With crimson berries in the leaves;

And he shall reign a goodly king

And sway his hand o'er every clime,

With peace writ on his signet ring,

Who bides his time.

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

CARELESS CONTENT

I am content; I do not care;

Wag as it will the world for me;

When Fuss and Fret was all my fare

It got no ground, as I could see.

So when away my caring went

I counted cost and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought

I strive to make my matters meet;

To seek, what ancient sages sought,

Physic and food in sour and sweet.

To take what passes in good part,

And keep the hiccups from the heart.

With good and gentle-humored hearts

I choose to chat, whene'er I come,

Whate'er the subject be that starts;

But if I get among the glum

I hold my tongue, to tell the truth,

And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change of peace or pain;

For fortune's favor or her frown;

For luck or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge, nor up nor down:

But swing what way the ship shall swim,

Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,

Nor trace the turn of every tide;

If simple sense will not succeed,

I make no bustling, but abide;

For shining wealth, or scoring woe,

I force no friend, I fear no foe.

I love my neighbor as myself;

Myself like him too, by his leave;

Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf

Came I to crouch, as I conceive;

Dame Nature doubtless has designed

A man the monarch of his mind.

Now taste and try this temper, sirs;

Mood it and brood it in your breast;

Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,

That man does right to mar his rest,

Let me be left, and debonair;

I am content; I do not care.

—John Byrom (1692-1763).

———

Some of your hurts you have cured,

And the sharpest you still have survived,

But what torments of grief you endured

From the evils which never arrived.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

HAPPY ANY WAY

Lord, it belongs not to my care

Whether I die or live;

To love and serve thee is my share,

And this thy grace must give.

If life be long, I will be glad

That I may long obey;

If short, yet why should I be sad

To soar to endless day?

Christ leads me through no darker rooms

Than he went through before;

He that into God's kingdom comes

Must enter by his door.

Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet

Thy blessèd face to see;

For, if thy work on earth be sweet,

What will thy glory be?

Then I shall end my sad complaints,

And weary, sinful days,

And join with the triumphant saints

Who sing Jehovah's praise.

My knowledge of that life is small;

The eye of faith is dim;

But 'tis enough that Christ knows all,

And I shall be with him.

—Richard Baxter.

———

THE THINGS I MISS

An easy thing, O Power Divine,

To thank thee for these gifts of thine!

For summer's sunshine, winter's snow,

For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow;

But when shall I attain to this:

To thank thee for the things I miss?

For all young fancy's early gleams,

The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams.

Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures known

Through others' fortunes, not my own,

And blessings seen that are not given,

And ne'er will be, this side of heaven.

Had I, too, shared the joys I see,

Would there have been a heaven for me?

Could I have felt thy presence near

Had I possessed what I held dear?

My deepest fortune, highest bliss,

Have grown, perchance, from things I miss.

Sometimes there comes an hour of calm;

Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm;

A Power that works above my will

Still leads me onward, upward still;

And then my heart attains to this:

To thank thee for the things I miss.

—Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

———

THE HERITAGE

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone and gold,

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares,

And soft white hands could hardly earn

A living that would serve his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;

With sated heart he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,

King of two hands, he does his part

In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,

A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,

Content that from employment springs,

A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned of being poor,

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil

That with all others level stands;

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten soft, white hands;

This is the best crop from thy lands,

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;

There is worse weariness than thine

In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;

Both, children of the same dear God,

Prove title to your heirship vast

By record of a well-filled past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

I AM CONTENT

I am content. In trumpet tones

My song let people know;

And many a mighty man with thrones

And scepter is not so.

And if he is I joyful cry,

Why, then he's just the same as I.

My motto is—Content with this;

Gold—place—I prize not such.

That which I have my measure is:

Wise men desire not much.

Men wish and wish, and have their will,

And wish again as hungry still.

And gold and honor are besides

A very brittle glass;

And time, in his unresting tides

Makes all things change and pass:

Turns riches to a beggar's dole;

Sets glory's race an infant's goal.

Be noble—that is more than wealth;

Do right—that's more than place;

Then in the spirit there is health

And gladness in the face:

Then thou art with thyself at one

And, no man hating, fearest none.

—George Macdonald.

———

MADAME LOFTY

Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage,

So do I;

She has dappled grays to draw it,

None have I.

She's no prouder of her coachman

Than am I

With my blue-eyed laughing baby

Trundling by.

I hide his face, lest she should see

The cherub boy and envy me.

Her fine husband has white fingers,

Mine has not;

He can give his bride a palace,

Mine a cot.

Hers comes home beneath the starlight,

Ne'er cares she;

Mine comes in the purple twilight,

Kisses me,

And prays that He who turns life's sands

Will hold his loved ones in his hands.

Mrs. Lofty has her jewels,

So have I;

She wears hers upon her bosom,

Inside I.

She will leave hers at Death's portals,

By and by;

I shall bear the treasures with me

When I die—

For I have love, and she has gold;

She counts her wealth, mine can't be told.

She has those who love her station,

None have I,

But I've one true heart beside me;

Glad am I;

I'd not change it for a kingdom,

No, not I;

God will weigh it in a balance,

By and by;

And then the difference he'll define

'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine.

———

So long as life's hope-sparkle glows, 'tis good;

When death delivers from life's woes, 'tis good.

Oh praise the Lord who makes all good, and will;

Whether he life or death bestows, 'tis good.

———

THE WIND THAT BLOWS, THAT WIND IS BEST

Whichever way the wind doth blow,

Some heart is glad to have it so;

Then blow it east or blow it west,

The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone;

A thousand fleet from every zone

Are out upon a thousand seas;

And what for me were favoring breeze

Might dash another with the shock

Of doom upon some hidden rock.

And so I do not dare to pray

For winds to waft me on my way;

But leave it to a Higher Will

To stay or speed me, trusting still

That ill is well, and sure that He

Who launched my bark will sail with me

Through storm and calm, and will not fail,

Whatever breezes may prevail,

To land me, every peril past,

Within his sheltering heaven at last.

Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,

My heart is glad to have it so;

And, blow it east or blow it west,

The wind that blows, that wind is best.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

———

THE DIFFERENCE

Some murmur, when their sky is clear

And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear

In their great heaven of blue.

And some with thankful love are filled

If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy, gild

The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,

In discontent and pride,

Why life is such a dreary task

And all things good denied.

Yet hearts in poorest huts admire

How love has in their aid

(Love that not ever seems to tire)

Such rich provision made.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

———

Give what Thou canst; without thee we are poor;

And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

—William Cowper.

———

RICHES AND POWER

Cleon has a million acres,

Ne'er a one have I;

Cleon dwelleth in a palace,

In a cottage I.

Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,

Not a penny I;

Yet the poorer of the twain is

Cleon, and not I.

Cleon, true, possesseth acres,

But the landscape I;

Half the charms to me it yieldeth,

Money cannot buy.

Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,

Freshening vigor I;

He in velvet, I in fustian,

Richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur,

Free as thought am I;

Cleon fees a score of doctors,

Need of none have I.

Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,

Cleon fears to die.

Death may come, he'll find me ready.

Happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charm in nature,

In a daisy I;

Cleon hears no anthem ringing

In the sea and sky;

Nature sings to me forever,

Earnest listener I!

State for state, with all attendants,

Who would change? Not I.

—Charles Mackay.

———

ENOUGH

I am so weak, dear Lord, I cannot stand

One moment without thee;

But oh, the tenderness of thine enfolding,

And oh, the faithfulness of thine upholding,

And oh, the strength of thy right hand!

That strength is enough for me.

I am so needy, Lord, and yet I know

All fullness dwells in thee;

And hour by hour that never-failing treasure

Supplies and fills in overflowing measure,

My last, my greatest need. And so

Thy grace is enough for me.

It is so sweet to trust thy word alone!

I do not ask to see

The unveiling of thy purpose, or the shining

Of future light or mysteries untwining;

The promise-roll is all my own,

Thy word is enough for me.

The human heart asks love. But now I know

That my heart hath from Thee

All real, and full, and marvelous affection

So near, so human! yet Divine perfection

Thrills gloriously the mighty glow!

Thy love is enough for me.

There were strange soul depths, restless, vast and broad

Unfathomed as the sea.

An infinite craving for some infinite stilling;

But now Thy perfect love is perfect filling!

Lord Jesus Christ, my Lord, my God,

Thou, thou art enough for me!

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

———

FULLY CONTENT

I know not, and I would not know,

Content, I leave it all with Thee;

'Tis ever best it should be so;

As thou wilt have it let it be.

But this I know: that every day

And every step for me is planned;

I surely cannot lose the Way

While He is holding fast my hand.

And surely, whatsoe'er betide,

I never shall be left alone:

Thou standest ever by my side;

To thee my future all is known.

And wheresoe'er my lot may fall

The way before is marked by Thee;

The windings of my life are all

Unfoldings of thy Love to me.

———

What matter will it be, O mortal man, when thou art dying,

Whether upon a throne or on the bare earth thou art lying?

—From the Persian.

———

CONTENT WITH ALL

Content that God's decree

Should order all for thee.

Content with sickness or with health—

Content with poverty or wealth—

Content to walk in humble guise,

And as He wills it sink or rise.

Content to live alone

And call no place thine own.

No sweet reunions day by day.

Thy kindred spirits far away.

And, since God wills to have it so,

Thou wouldst not change for weal or woe.

Content that others rise

Before thy very eyes.

How bright their lot and portion here!

Wealth fills their coffers—friends are near.

Behold their mansions tall and fair!

The timbrel and the dance are there.

Content to toil or rest—

God's peace within thy breast—

To feel thy times are in His hand

Who holds all worlds in his command—

Thy time to laugh—thy time to sigh—

Thy time to live—thy time to die.

And is it so indeed

Thou art with God agreed?

Content 'mid all the ills of life?

Farewell, then, sorrow, pain and strife!

Such high content is heaven begun.

The battle's fought, the victory won!

—Mary Ann W. Cook.

———

A BLESSED LESSON

Have I learned, in whatsoever

State to be content?

Have I learned this blessed lesson

By my Master sent—

And with joyous acquiescence

Do I greet His will

Even when my own is thwarted

And my hands lie still?

Surely it is best and sweetest

Thus to have Him choose,

Even though some work I've taken

By this choice I lose.

Folded hands need not be idle—

Fold them but in prayer;

Other souls may toil far better

For God's answer there.

They that "reap" receive their "wages,"

Those who "work" their "crown,"

Those who pray throughout the ages

Bring blest answers down;

In "whatever state" abiding

Till the Master call,

They at eventide will find Him

Glorified in all.

What though I can do so little

For my Lord and King,

At His feet I sit and listen,

At His feet I sing.

And, whatever my condition,

All in love is meant;

Sing, my soul, thy recognition,

Sing, and be content!

———

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

Led by kindlier hand than ours,

We journey through this earthly scene,

And should not, in our weary hours,

Turn to regret what might have been.

And yet these hearts, when torn by pain,

Or wrung by disappointment keen,

Will seek relief from present cares

In thoughts of joys that might have been.

But let us still these wishes vain;

We know not that of which we dream.

Our lives might have been sadder yet

God only knows what might have been.

Forgive us, Lord, our little faith;

And help us all, from morn to e'en,

Still to believe that lot were best

Which is—not that which might have been.

And grant we may so pass the days

The cradle and the grave between,

That death's dark hour not darker be

For thoughts of what life might have been.

—George Z. Gray.

———

Hushing every muttered murmur,

Let your fortitude the firmer

Gird your soul with strength.

While, no treason near her lurking,

Patience in her perfect working,

Shall be Queen at length.

———

BE CONTENT

Be thou content; be still before

His face at whose right hand doth reign

Fullness of joy for evermore,

Without whom all thy toil is vain;

He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose rays

Make glad with life and light thy dreary days.

Be thou content.

In him is comfort, light, and grace,

And changeless love beyond our thought;

The sorest pang, the worst disgrace,

If he is there, shall harm thee not.

He can lift off thy cross and loose thy bands,

And calm thy fears; nay, death is in His hands.

Be thou content.

Or art thou friendless and alone—

Hast none in whom thou canst confide?

God careth for thee, lonely one—

Comfort and help he will provide.

He sees thy sorrows, and thy hidden grief,

He knoweth when to send thee quick relief;

Be thou content.

Thy heart's unspoken pain he knows,

Thy secret sighs he hears full well;

What to none else thou darest disclose

To him thou mayest with boldness tell.

He is not far away, but ever nigh,

And answereth willingly the poor man's cry:

Be thou content.

———

MANNA

'Twas in the night the manna fell

That fed the hosts of Israel.

Enough for each day's fullest store

And largest need; enough, no more.

For willful waste, for prideful show,

God sent not angels' food below.

Still in our nights of deep distress

The manna falls our heart to bless.

And, famished, as we cry for bread,

With heavenly food our lives are fed,

And each day's need finds each day's store

Enough. Dear Lord, what want we more!

—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

———

BLESSINGS NEAR AT HAND

We look too far for blessings;

We seek too far for joys;

We ought to be like children

Who find their chiefest toys

Ofttimes in nearest attic,

Or in some dingy lane—

Their aprons full of weeds or flowers

Gathered in sun or rain.

Within the plainest cottage

Unselfish love may grow;

The sweetest, the divinest gift,

Which mortals ever know.

We ought to count our joys, not woes;

Meet care with winsome grace;

For discontent plows furrows

Upon the loveliest face.

Hope, freedom, sunlight, knowledge,

Come not to wealth alone;

He who looks far for blessings

Will overlook his own.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

I WOULDN'T

A sprig of mint by the wayward brook,

A nibble of birch in the wood,

A summer day, and love, and a book,

And I wouldn't be a king if I could.

—John Vance Cheney.

———

The way to make thy son rich is to fill

His mind with rest before his trunk with riches:

For wealth without contentment climbs a hill

To feel those tempests which fly over ditches.

—George Herbert.

———

THE JEWEL

There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,

No chemic art can counterfeit;

It makes men rich in greatest poverty,

Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,

The homely whistle to sweet music's strain;

Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,

That much in little, all in naught—Content.

———

FINDING CONTENT

I could not find the little maid Content,

So out I rushed, and sought her far and wide;

But not where Pleasure each new fancy tried,

Heading the maze of rioting merriment,

Nor where, with restless eyes and bow half bent,

Love in the brake of sweetbriar smiled and sighed,

Nor yet where Fame towered, crowned and glorified,

Found I her face, nor wheresoe'er I went.

So homeward back I crawled, like wounded bird,

When lo! Content sate spinning at my door;

And when I asked her where she was before—

"Here all the time," she said; "I never stirred;

Too eager in thy search, you passed me o'er,

And, though I called you, neither saw nor heard."

—Alfred Austin.

———

DAILY STRENGTH

Day by day the manna fell;

O to learn this lesson well;

Still by constant mercy fed,

Give me, Lord, my daily bread.

"Day by day," the promise reads;

Daily strength for daily needs;

Cast foreboding fears away;

Take the manna of to-day.

Lord, my times are in thy hand.

All my sanguine hopes have planned

To thy wisdom I resign,

And would make thy purpose thine.

Thou my daily task shalt give;

Day by day to Thee I live;

So shall added years fulfill

Not my own—my Father's will.

Fond ambition, whisper not;

Happy is my humble lot;

Anxious, busy cares away;

I'm provided for to-day.

O to live exempt from care

By the energy of prayer;

Strong in faith, with mind subdued,

Yet elate with gratitude.

—Josiah Conder.

———

GOD IS ENOUGH

God is enough! thou, who in hope and fear

Toilest through desert sands of life, sore tried,

Climb, trustful, over death's black ridge, for near

The bright wells shine; thou wilt be satisfied.

God doth suffice! O thou, the patient one,

Who puttest faith in him, and none beside,

Bear yet thy load; under the setting sun

The glad tents gleam; thou wilt be satisfied

By God's gold Afternoon! peace ye shall have;

Man is in loss except he live aright,

And help his fellow to be firm and brave,

Faithful and patient; then the restful night.

—Edwin Arnold, from the Arabian.

———

THE TRULY RICH

They're richer who diminish their desires,

Though their possessions be not amplified,

Than monarchs, who in owning large empires,

Have minds that never will be satisfied.

For he is poor who wants what he would have,

And rich who, having naught, doth nothing crave.

—T. Urchard.

———

THY ALLOTMENT

Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident,

It is the very place God meant for thee;

And shouldst thou there small scope for action see

Do not for this give room to discontent,

Nor let the time thou owest God be spent

In idle dreaming how thou mightest be,

In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free

From outward hindrance or impediment.

For presently this hindrance thou shalt find

That without which all goodness were a task

So slight that virtue never could grow strong;

And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind—

The Imposer's—over-burdened thou shalt ask,

And own thy need of, grace to help ere long.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

———

THE HAPPIEST HEART

Who drives the horses of the sun

Shall lord it but a day;

Better the lowly deed were done,

And kept the humble way.

The rust will find the sword of fame,

The dust will hide the crown;

Aye, none shall nail so high his name

Time will not tear it down.

The happiest heart that ever beat

Was in some quiet breast

That found the common daylight sweet,

And left to Heaven the rest.

—John Vance Cheney.

———

WELCOME THE SHADOWS

Welcome the shadows; where they blackest are

Burns through the bright supernal hour;

From blindness of wide dark looks out the star,

From all death's night the April flower.

For beauty and for gladness of the days

Bring but the meed of trust;

The April grass looks up from barren ways,

The daisy from the dust.

When of this flurry thou shalt have thy fill,

The thing thou seekest, it will seek thee then:

The heavens repeat themselves in waters still

And in the faces of contented men.

—John Vance Cheney.

———

THE DAILY COURSE

New every morning is the love

Our wakening and uprising prove;

Through sleep and darkness safely brought,

Restored to life, and power, and thought.

New mercies each returning day

Hover around us while we pray;

New perils past, new sins forgiven,

New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

If on our daily course our mind

Be set to hallow all we find,

New treasures still, of countless price,

God will provide for sacrifice.

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be

As more of heaven in each we see;

Some softening gleam of love and prayer

Shall dawn on every cross and care.

We need not bid, for cloistered cell,

Our neighbor and our work farewell,

Nor strive to wind ourselves too high

For sinful man beneath the sky.

The trivial round, the common task,

Will furnish all we ought to ask:

Room to deny ourselves a road

To bring us daily nearer God.

Seek we no more; content with these,

Let present rapture, comfort, ease,

As Heaven shall bid them, come and go;

The secret, this, of rest below.

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love

Fit us for perfect rest above;

And help us this and every day,

To live more nearly as we pray.

—John Keble.

———

GOD ENOUGH

Let nothing disturb thee,

Nothing affright thee;

All things are passing;

God never changeth;

Patient endurance

Attaineth to all things;

Who God possesseth

In nothing is wanting;

Alone God sufficeth.

—St. Teresa, tr. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

THE GOLDEN MEAN

He that holds fast the golden mean

And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,

Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Embittering all his state.

———

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

If every man's internal care

Were written on his brow,

How many would our pity share

Who raise our envy now?

The fatal secret, when revealed,

Of every aching breast,

Would prove that only while concealed

Their lot appeared the best.

—Pietro Metastasio.

———

Let us be content in work

To do the thing we can, and not presume

To fret because it's little.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

———

If none were sick and none were sad,

What service could we render?

I think if we were always glad,

We scarcely could be tender.

If sorrow never claimed our heart,

And every wish were granted,

Patience would die and hope depart—

Life would be disenchanted.

———

A pilgrim, bound to Mecca, quite away his sandals wore,

And on the desert's blistering sand his feet grew very sore.

"To let me suffer thus, great Allah, is not kind nor just,

While in thine service I confront the painful heat and dust."

He murmured in complaining tone; and in this temper came

To where, around the Kaaba, pilgrims knelt of every name;

And there he saw, while pity and remorse his bosom beat,

A pilgrim who not only wanted shoes, but feet.

—From the Persian, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.

———

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

Strength for to-day is all that we need,

As there never will be a to-morrow;

For to-morrow will prove but another to-day

With its measure of joy or of sorrow.

———

Don't think your lot the worst because

Some griefs your joy assail;

There aren't so very many saws

That never strike a nail.

—Nixon Waterman.

———

When it drizzles and drizzles,

If we cheerfully smile,

We can make the weather,

By working together,

As fair as we choose in a little while.

For who will notice that clouds are drear

If pleasant faces are always near,

And who will remember that skies are gray

If he carries a happy heart all day?

---