But I do look for promised blessings in God's Holy Book,

And I can wait.

I may not try

To keep the hot tears back, but hush that sigh

"It might have been."

And try to still each rising murmur, and to God's sweet will

Respond "Amen."

THY WAY, NOT MINE, O LORD

THY way, not mine, O Lord,
However dark it be.

Lead me by Thine own hand,
Choose out the path for me.

Smooth let it be or rough,

It will be still the best; Winding or straight, it leads Right onward to Thy breast.

I dare not choose my lot;
I would not, if I might;
Choose Thou for me, my God;
So shall I walk aright.

The kingdom that I seek
Is Thine, so let the way
That leads to it be Thine,
Else I must surely stray.

Take Thou my cup, and it
With joy or sorrow fill,

As best to Thee may seem;
Choose Thou my good and ill.

Choose Thou for me my friends,
My sickness or my health;
Choose Thou my cares for me,
My poverty or wealth.

Not mine, not mine the choice,
In things or great or small;
Be Thou my guide, my strength,
My wisdom, and my all.

HORATIUS BONAR

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

I LONG for household voices gone,
For vanished smiles I long;
But God hath led my dear ones on,
And He can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hath
Of marvel, or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,

The bruised reed He will not break,
But comfort, and sustain.

No offering of my own I have,
Nor works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love.

And so beside the Silent Sea

I wait the muffled oar;

No harm from him can come to me, On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.

J. G. WHITTIER.

DREAM-LAND

WHERE sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charméd sleep,
Awake her not.

Led by a single star,

She came from very far

To seek where shadows are

Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,

She left the fields of corn,

For twilight, cold and lorn,

And water-springs.

Through sleep, as through a veil,

She sees the skies look pale,

And hears the nightingale,

That sadly sings.