Meek teachers! could I learn that lesson given!
If God so clothe the grass with beauty rare,
Shall He not guide us on our way to heaven,
And guard our pathway till we enter there?
Oh give me, Lord, a soul of lily whiteness,
Washed in the blood that Thou hast shed for me,
Thy Spirit's light to pierce earth's gloom with brightness
And show the way thro' mist and cloud to Thee
Give me a heart whose treasure is in heaven,
Not for to-morrow feeling anxious thought;
Even as my day, so shall my strength be given,
And grace sufficient—can I want for aught?
Oh, give me faith, that on Thy love relying,
From doubt's dark thrall I may be ever free;
And clothe me, Lord, that in the hour of dying,
Thy righteousness, blest robe, may cover me!
Thus may I walk, by Thee, my Guide, befriended,
'Joyous with joy that knows no sad decay;
That when earth's sun has set her brief day ended
My morn may break and shine to "perfect day'"
SONGS OF THE SEA.
"My soul is full of longing
For the secret of the sea,
And the heart of the great ocean
Sends a restless pulse through me."—LONGFELLOW
In the grey light of the morning, ere the sun has lit the sky
When the winds rave loud and wildly, to the angry waters
How the mighty, foaming billows thunder forth, in ceaseless
roar,
Songs majestic, wild with anguish, woeful waitings evermore.
In the dawn light, in the gloaming, beating, breaking, o'er
and o'er,
Telling out the ocean stories, to the wide, encircling shore;
And I listen, till the legends of the past, a shadowy host,
Seem to gather round, and people storied Antrim's rock-bound
coast.
Where the grandeur of the Causeway smiles in scorn at Art's
weak hand,
Seem the wild waves ever singing of the high schemes Nature
plann'd,
When she hurled the giant columns, by some mighty earthquake
shock,
Till they stand, huge pillar-wonders, by the paved,
mysterious rock;
And the dark caves, weird and frowning, echoing the sea's
wild strife,
Seem to hold some spell unearthly, of the ocean's secret
life.
Where th'Atlantic rolls sublimely, lashing round Port
Ballintrae,
Language cannot paint the grandeur of the waves, in awful
play!
Beating, breaking, wildly seething, whilst in restless,
fitful roar,
Deep to far-off deep is calling, answering round from shore
to shore.
And the spirit of the ocean seems to fill its heaving breast
With ten thousand prison'd longings, wailing out in wild
unrest.