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And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still,

A sad and sickening show;

From grief exempt, I never had dreamt,
Of such a World of Woe!

Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,
That grieve this earthly ball-
Disease and Hunger, and Pain and Want,
But now I dreamt of them all!

For the blind and the cripple were there,
And the babe that pined for bread,
And the houseless man, and the widow poor,
Who begged-to bury the dead;
The naked, alas, that I might have clad,
The famish'd I might have fed!

The sorrow I might have soothed,
And the unregarded tears;

For many a thronging shape was there,
From long-forgotten years,
Aye, even the poor, rejected Moor,
Who raised my childish fears!

Each pleading look, that long ago
I scanned with a heedless eye,
Each face was gazing as plainly there
As when I passed it by :

Woe, woe for me, if the past should be
Thus present when I die!

No need of sulphurous lake,
No need of fiery coal,

But only that crowd of human kind
Who wanted pity and dole-

In everlasting retrospect―

Will ring my sinful soul!

Alas! I have walk'd through life,
Too heedless where I trod;

Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm,
And fill the burial sod;

Forgetting that even the sparrow falls
Not unmark'd of God.

I drank the richest draughts;
And ate whatever is good-
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit,
Supplied my hungry mood;

But I never remember'd the wretched ones
That starve for want of food!

I dressed as the noble dress,

In cloth of silver and gold,

With silk and satin, and costly furs,
In many an ample fold;

But I never remember'd the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.

The wounds I might have heal'd!
The human sorrow and smart!
And yet it never was in my soul

To play so ill a part:

But evil is wrought by want of Thought,
As well as want of Heart!

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She clasped her fervent hands
And the tears began to stream,-
Large and bitter and fast they fell,
Remorse was so extreme;

And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame
Would dream the Lady's Dream!
Thomas Hood.
341. CHARITY, Description of.
Blest Charity! the grace long-suffering, kind,
Which envies not, has no self-vaunting mind,
Is not puffed up, makes no unseemly show,
Seeks not her own, to provocation slow,
No evil thinks, in no unrighteous choice
Takes pleasure, doth in truth rejoice, [best,
Hides all things, still believes, and hopes the
All things endures, averse to all contest.
Tongues, knowledge, prophecy, shall sink
At the first glance of beatific ray;
Then charity its element shall gain,
And with the God of love eternal reign.

342. CHARITY, Heathen.

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Bp. Ken.

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A man once sat with his good wife to eat A hen, of which she was for him the roaster.

A beggar cried, "Some food I do entreat!" But drove him off the satiated boaster.

He thought not of the old proverbial verse, "The full should call the empty to their table." [curse, Soon through his house came hunger as a To get a single hen he was not able.

From direst poverty he left his wife,

And homeless roamed abroad without a brother;

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ers,

Your benefactors in the newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest

In the other world,-donations to keep open
A running charity account with Heaven,
Retaining fees against the Last Assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-
Lawyer

Plead his own plaintiff. Robert Southey.

345. CHARITY, Superiority of

Virtue distressed to Faith applied
For strength her woes to bear;

But Faith was weak, and turned aside
With an half-uttered prayer.

Hope o'er the sufferer bent awhile
With wan and doubtful look,

Shed the faint semblance of a smile,
And her departure took.

Virtue despaired-but Charity

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In that dark hour appeared;

Rise, sister, rise! Come, dwell with me;

Lo! see my temples reared."

Lady, there's not a harp in heaven
But chants its lay to thee;

To thee the immortal crown is given,
For thou art Charity!

346. CHARITY, Trifling.

The blessings which the poor and weak can

scatter

Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarian juices
Renew the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort, which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned,
'twill fall

Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again.
Thomas N. Talfourd.

347. CHASTISEMENT, Benefit of.
I weep, but do not yield;
I mourn, yet still rebel';
My inmost soul seems steeled,
Cold and immovable.

The wound is sharp and deep;
My spirit bleeds within;
And yet I lie asleep,

And still I sin, I sin.

My bruised soul complains

Of stripes without, within;
I feel these piercing pains—
Yet still I sin, I sin.

O'er me the low cloud hung
Its weight of shade and fear;
Unmoved I passed along,

And still my sin is here.

Yon massive mountain-peak

The lightning rends at will;
The rock can melt or break—
I am unbroken still.

My sky was once noon-bright,
My day was calm the while,
I loved the pleasant light,
The sunshine's happy smile.

I said, My God, oh, sure
This love will kindle mine;
Let but this calm endure,
Then all my heart is Thine.
Alas, I knew it not!

The summer flung its gold
Of sunshine o'er my lot,

And yet my heart was cold.
Trust me with prosperous days,
I said; oh, spare the rod;
Thee and Thy love I'll praise,
My gracious, patient God.

Must I be smitten, Lord?
Are gentler measures vain?
Must I be smitten, Lord?

Can nothing save but pain?

Thou trustedst me a while;
Alas! I was deceived;
I revelled in the smile,

Yet to the dust I cleaved.

Then the fierce tempest broke,
I knew from whom it came,
I read in that sharp stroke

A Father's hand and name.
And yet I did Thee wrong;

Dark thoughts of Thee came in,—
A froward, selfish throng,-
And I allowed the sin!

I did Thee wrong, my God;
I wronged Thy truth and love,
I fretted at the rod,

Against Thy power I strove.

I said, My God, at length,

This stony heart remove; Deny all other strength,

But give me strength to love.

Come nearer, nearer still;

Let not Thy light depart;
Bend, break this stubborn will,
Dissolve this iron heart.

Less wayward let me be,
More pliable and mild;
In glad simplicity

More like a trustful child.

Less, less, of self each day,
And more, my God, of thee;
O keep me in the way,
However rough it be.

Less of the flesh each day,
Less of the world and sin;
More of Thy Son, I pray,
More of Thyself within.
Riper and riper now,
Each hour let me become,
Less fit for scenes below,

More fit for such a home.
More moulded to Thy will,
Lord, let Thy servant be,
Higher and higher still,

Liker and liker thee.

Leave nought that is unmeet;
Of all that is mine own

Strip me; and so complete

My training for the throne.
Horatius Bonar.

348. CHASTISEMENT, Observation of
Receive thy scourge by others' chastisement;
For such calling, when it work none amends,
Then plagues are sent without advertisement.

Yet Solomon said the wronged shall recure:
But Wyatt said true, "The scar doth aye
endure."
Earl of Surrey.

349. CHASTISEMENT, Views of

Rabia, sick upon her bed,
By two saints was visited,
Holy Malik, Hassan wise,-
Men of mark in Moslem eyes.
Hassan says, "Whose prayer is pure
Will God's chastisements endure."
Malik from a deeper sense
Uttered his experience:

"He who loves his master's choice
Will in chastisement rejoice."
Rabia saw some selfish will
In their maxims lingering still,
And replied, "O men of grace!
He who sees his Master's face
Will not in his prayer recall
That he is chastised at all."

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Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide:
In part she is to blame who has been tried,
He comes too near who comes to be denied.
Lady Montagu.

353. CHASTITY, Violation of.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charms can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

And hide her shame from ev'ry eye,
And give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom is-to die.

Oliver Goldsmith.

£34. CHEERFULNESS Encouraged.
Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearfully,
The day of trial bear,

For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair! Charlotte Brontë. 355. CHEERFULNESS, Power of. The stoutest armor of defence is that which is within the bosom,

And the weapon that no enemy can parry is
a bold and cheerful spirit:
Catapults in old war worked like Titans,
crushing foes with rocks;
So doth a strong-springed heart throw back
every load on its assailants.

M. F. Tupper.
356. CHEERFULNESS, Psalm of.
I mourn no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,

An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and singing low
I hear the glad streams run;

The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward, nor behind,
I look in hope and fear:
But grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now, and here.

I plough no more a desert land
For harvest, weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar,

The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringèd lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given;

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south winds softly sigh,

And sweet calm days in golden haze
Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong:

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.

Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track,
That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back;

That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,

Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good;

That death seems but a covered way,
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight;

That care and trial seem at last,
Through memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast

In purple distance fair;

That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play:
And all the windows of my heart
I open to this day.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

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Amy died

Dear little Amy! when you talk of her,
Say, she is gone to heaven.

2d Child. They planted herWill she come up next year?

1st Child. No, not so soon;

But some day God will call her to come up, And then she will. Papa knows everything; He said she would before they planted her. Jean Ingelow.

358. CHILD, Lesson for a. My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you, For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; [ever And so make life, death, and that vast forOne grand, sweet song!

Charles Kingsley.

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Of God, thou living witness against all men

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He lives! In all the past seeing him again will I despair; He lives; nor, to the last,

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

Who have been babes, thou everlasting I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

promise

Which no man keeps, thou portrait of our

nature, [worship, Which in despair and pride we scorn and Thou household god, whom no iconoclast Hath broken!

360. CHILD, My Lost.

Sydney Dobell.

I cannot make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes, he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And, through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair!
I'm stepping toward the hall
To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchelled lad I meet,

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod

So

help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at Thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that he is there! John Pierpont.

361. CHILDHOOD, Beauty of.

Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy
That like a robe is palpable, and flung
Out by your ev'ry motion! delicate bud
Of the immortal flower that will unfold
And come to its maturity in heaven!
I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light
Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf
Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face
Of the delightful earth will to your eye
Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice

And, as he's running by.

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;
O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye
Seek him inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not
there!

When at the cool gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy,
To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not
there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am in spirit praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Of nature in her gentleness will be
To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.
Nathaniel Parker Willis.

362. CHILDHOOD, Crown of

The cows are lowing along the lane,
The sheep to the fold have come,
And the mother looks from the cottage door,
To see how the night comes over the moor,
And calls the children home.

Their feet are bare in the dusty road,
Their cheeks are tawny and red;
They have waded the shallows below the mill,
They have gathered wild roses up the hill,
A crown for each tangled head.
The days will come, and the days will go,
And life hath many a crown,

But none that will press upon manhood's brow
As light as the roses resting now

On the children's foreheads brown.
363. CHILDHOOD, Eternal.

Little children, young and aged,
Bear the blessing up!
Pour around the life elixir
From your golden cup!
Love is the divine restorer
Of the souls of men;
This the new perpetual Eden
We must seek again.

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