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Harriet Winslow Sewall.

1819-1889.

WHY THUS LONGING?

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearnings it would still;
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw; If no silken cord of love hath bound thee

To some little world through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give ;

Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning,
Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height?

Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ;
But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier,-all the world is thine.

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself, thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.

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Laid on Thine altar, O my Lord divine,
Accept my gift this day, for Jesu's sake.
I have no jewels to adorn Thy shrine,

Nor any world-famed sacrifice to make;
But here I bring, within my trembling hand,
This will of mine-a thing that seemeth small.

And Thou alone, O Lord, canst understand

How, when I yield Thee this, I yield mine all. Hidden therein, Thy searching gaze can see

Struggles of passion-visions of delightAll that I have, or am, or fain would be,—

Deep loves, fond hopes, and longings infinite; It hath been wet with tears, and dimmed with sighs,

Clenched in my grasp till beauty hath it none; Now from Thy footstool where it vanquished lies, The prayer ascendeth, "May Thy will be done." Take it, O Father, ere my courage fail,

And merge it so in Thine own will, that e'en If in some desperate hour my cries prevail, And Thou give me my gift, it may have been So changed, so purified, so fair have grown,

So one with Thee, so filled with peace divine, I may not know or feel it as mine own—

But gaining back my will, may find it Thine.

James Russell Lowell.
1819.

YUSSOUF.

A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent, Saying: "Behold one outcast and in dread, Against whose life the bow of power is bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head;

I come to thee for shelter and for food,

To Yussouf, called through all our tribes 'The Good.'"

"This tent is mine," said Yussouf, "but no more Than it is God's; come in, and be at peace; Freely shalt thou partake of all my store

As I of His who buildeth over these

Our tents His glorious roof of night and day,
And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay."

So Yussouf entertained his guest that night,
And, waking him ere day, said: "Here is gold;
My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight;

Depart before the prying day grow bold."
As one lamp lights another, nor grows less,
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.

That inward light the stranger's face made grand, Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling

low,

He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand,
Sobbing: "O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so;
I will repay thee; all this thou hast done
Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!"

"Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, "for with thee

Into the desert, never to return,

My one black thought shall ride away from me;
First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn,
Balanced and just are all of God's decrees;
Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace!"

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

From "Prelude to Part First."

'Tis heaven alone that is given away,
'T is only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays.
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.

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Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it ;
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ;

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