Poems

I'll lift my heart in gratitude above, For gifts of nature and redeeming Love; And next for thee, who dost with fondness prove— A Mother. With kindness thou didst watch my infant years, Soothed when I grieved, and wiped the falling tears; To pity now, in care or grief, appears, No Mother.

Press on, dear traveller, press on! I am the Way, the Truth, the Life, Press on! It is the strait and narrow way That leads to that eternal day, That turns the darkness into light, That buries wrong and honors right; Press on! Press on! and know that God is all, He is the Life, the Truth, the Love. Press on! It is the way the Saviour trod, It is the way that leads to God, Think of the word, "No cross, no crown;" Though tasks are sore, be not cast down, Press on!

From David's lips this word did roll,      'T is true and living yet: " No man can save his brother's soul,      Nor pay his brother's debt. " Alone, self-poised, henceforward man      Must labor; must resign His all-too-human creeds, and scan      Simply the way divine.

From David's lips this word did roll,      'T is true and living yet: " No man can save his brother's soul,      Nor pay his brother's debt. " Alone, self-poised, henceforward man      Must labor; must resign His all-too-human creeds, and scan      Simply the way divine.

March comes, but Winter lingers      Safe in the lap of Spring; Grasp crystal-jewelled fingers,      Her lengthening apron-string.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime, Dark-heaving, boundless, endless, and sublime— The image of eternity, the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made: each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. Byron.

Love threatens, that it may not strike; and, still Unheeded, strikes, that so it may not kill. Love set me up on high.

We wove a web of doubt and fear,— Not faith and hope and love,— Because we looked at our work, and not At our pattern, up above! Phoebe Cary.

The Sacred Tree midst the fair orchard grew; The Phænix Truth did on it rest, And built his perfumed nest,— That right Porphyrian tree, which did true logic shew. Each leaf did learned notions give, And the apples were demonstrative.

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