I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see; Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand And follow Thee. Joy is like restless day; but peace divine Like quiet night: Lead me, O Lord,--till perfect Day shall shine, Through Peace to Light. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. * * * * * ON HIS BLINDNESS. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." MILTON. * * * * * THE MARTYRS' HYMN. Flung to the heedless winds, Or on the waters cast, The martyrs' ashes, watched, Shall gathered be at last; And from that scattered dust, Around us and abroad, Shall spring a plenteous seed Of witnesses for God. The Father hath received Their latest living breath; And vain is Satan's boast Of victory in their death; Still, still, though dead, they speak, And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim To many a wakening land The one availing name. From the German of MARTIN LUTHER. Translation of W.J. FOX. * * * * * THE PILGRIMAGE. Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gauge; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage! Blood must be my body's balmer, No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of Heaven, Over the silver mountains Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before, But after, it will thirst no more. Then by that happy, blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me. I'll take them first To quench their thirst, And taste of nectar's suckets At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.