Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame, Nor can the memory find A sweeter sound than thy blest name, O Saviour of mankind! O Hope of every contrite heart! O Joy of all the meek! To those who fall, how kind thou art! How good to those who seek! But what to those who find? Ah! this, Nor tongue nor pen can show; The love of Jesus, what it is, None but his loved ones know. Jesus, our only joy be thou, As thou our prize wilt be; Jesus, be thou our glory now, And through eternity. --_Bernard._ MORALITY. We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides; The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight willed Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled. With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in nature's eye, Ask how _she_ viewed thy self-control, Thy struggling, tasked morality.-- Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek! "Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine, Whence was it, for it is not mine?" There is no effort on _my_ brow; I do not strive, I do not weep: I rush with the swift spheres, and glow In joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once--but where? I knew not yet the gauge of time, No more the manacles of space; I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of God. --_Matthew Arnold._ MORNING. Hues of the rich unfolding morn, That, ere the glorious sun be born, By some soft touch invisible, Around his path are taught to swell;-- Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay, That dancest forth at opening day, And brushing by with joyous wing, Wakenest each little leaf to sing;-- Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, By which deep grove and tangled stream Pay, for soft rains in season given, Their tribute to the genial heaven;-- Why waste your treasures of delight Upon our thankless, joyless sight, Who, day by day, to sin awake, Seldom of heaven and you partake? Oh! timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise! Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new! New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove: Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life, and power, and thought.