QUIET WORK

ONE lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,

One lesson which in every wind is blown,

One lesson of two duties kept at one
Though the loud world proclaim their enmity-

Of toil unsevered from tranquillity;
Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows
Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose,
Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.

Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,
Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil,
Still do thy quiet ministers move on,

Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;
Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,
Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.
MATTHEW ARNOLD.

WHE

REBECCA'S HYMN

HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out of the land of bondage came,
Her father's God before her moved,

An awful guide in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night Arabia's crimson'd sands
Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answered keen, And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone;

Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen,
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path

In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light!

102

REBECCA'S HYMN

Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute our timbrel, harp, and horn.
But Thou hast said, "The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams I will not prize;
A contrite heart, an humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

REST

REST is not quitting

The busy career;

Rest is the fitting

Of self to one's sphere:

'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife; Fleeting to ocean,

After its life:

'Tis loving and serving The highest and best; "Tis onward, unswerving. And this is true rest.

GOETHE.

RUTH

HE stood breast high amid the corn,

SHE

Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun,

Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened;-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;-
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:-

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.

THOMAS HOOD.