Poems

"Cast in your nets on the other side!" ('Twas Jesus speaking across the tide;) And they cast and were dragging hard; But that disciple whom Jesus loved Cried straightway out, for his heart was moved: "It is our risen Lord— Our Master, and our Lord!" 'Tis long ago, yet faith in our souls Is kindled just by that fire of coals That streamed o'er the mists of the sea; Where Peter, girding his fisher's coat, Went over the nets and out of the boat, To answer, "Lov'st thou me?" Thrice over, "Lov'st thou me?"— Alice Cary.

O Birds from out the east: O birds from out the west; Have you found the happy city in all your weary quest? Tell me, tell me, from earth's wandering may the heart find glad surcease? Can ye show me, as an earnest, any olive-branch of peace? There sleepeth no such city within the wide world's bound, Nor hath the dreaming fancy yet its blissful portals found; We are but children crying here upon a mother's breast, For life and peace and blessedness, and for eternal rest. I am weary of life's troubles, of its sin and toil and care, I am faithless, crushing in my heart so many a fruitless prayer; O birds from out the east; O birds from out the west; Can ye tell me of that city, the name of which is Rest? Bless God, I hear a still small voice above life's clamorous din, Saying, "Faint not, O weary one, thou yet may'st enter in.

No outward mark have we to know Who thine, O Christ, may be, Until a Christian love doth show Who appertains to thee: For knowledge may be reached unto, And formal justice gained, But till each other love we doe, Both faith and workes are feigned. — George Withers.

The God who made both heaven and earth, And all that they contain, Will never quit his steadfast Truth, Nor make his promise vain. The poor oppressed from all their wrongs, Are eased by his decree.

Prince of peace, the Heavenly King As a mortal babe disguised, He appeared whom angels sing, Earth-disguised. Empty-handed from his birth, Gifts exceeding pure he brought: Treasures hidden not in earth Jesus brought.

" There is a story told In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold, And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit, With grave responses listening unto it: Once, on the errands of his mercy bent, Buddha, the holy and benevolent, Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look, Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook. 'O son of peace!" the giant cried, 'thy fate Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate.

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Thy will, almighty Father, thine And thine alone be ever done; For Thou art Life and Truth and Love, The great, eternal, holy One. Reflectors, we, of all Thou art, Of all the sunshine of Thy love.

' Mid the silence of the mountains, When the dawn unlocks the day, And the mist's white, curling fountains Up their sides fantastic play; There our Father walks beside us, Leading up Love's towering heights; Through His vision we are gazing On the morn that spirit lights. When the evening shadows hover O'er the river's restless flow; When the silvering moonbeams cover Earth with all their softening glow; Then His presence fills the gloaming With the vesper-song of love, And from o'er the waters foaming, See, with olive-branch, the dove.

Once I wandered on in darkness, Now the Light Divine hath shone; And my Life is full of beauty That I ne'er before have known. Oh, the blessed peace and comfort Now Thy promises afford! And with joy that never ceases All my Life is sweetly stored.