And so I do not dare to pray For winds to waft me on my way, But leave it to a Higher Will To stay or speed me; trusting still That all is well, and sure that He Who launched my bark will sail with me Through storm and calm, and will not fail, Whatever breezes may prevail, To land me, every peril past, Within his sheltering heaven at last. Then, whatsoever wind doth blow, My heart is glad to have it so; And blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best. CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON. * * * * * THE LOVE OF GOD. Thou Grace Divine, encircling all, A soundless, shoreless sea! Wherein at last our souls must fall, O Love of God most free! When over dizzy heights we go, One soft hand blinds our eyes, The other leads us, safe and slow, O Love of God most wise! And though we turn us from thy face, And wander wide and long, Thou hold'st us still in thine embrace, O Love of God most strong! The saddened heart, the restless soul, The toil-worn frame and mind, Alike confess thy sweet control, O Love of God most kind! But not alone thy care we claim, Our wayward steps to win; We know thee by a dearer name, O Love of God within! And, filled and quickened by thy breath, Our souls are strong and free To rise o'er sin and fear and death, O Love of God, to thee! ELIZA SCUDDER. * * * * * PRAISE TO GOD. Praise to God, immortal praise, For the love that crowns our days-- Bounteous source of every joy, Let Thy praise our tongues employ! For the blessings of the field, For the stores the gardens yield, For the vine's exalted juice, For the generous olive's use; Flocks that, whiten all the plain, Yellow sheaves of ripened grain, Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffuse-- All that Spring, with bounteous hand, Scatters o'er the smiling land; All that liberal Autumn pours From her rich o'erflowing stores: These to Thee, my God, we owe-- Source whence all our blessings flow! And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise. Yet should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear-- Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot Drop her green untimely fruit-- Should the vine put forth no more, Nor the olive yield her store-- Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall-- Should Thine altered hand restrain The early and the latter rain, Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy; Yet to Thee my soul should raise Grateful vows and solemn praise, And when every blessing's flown, Love Thee--for Thyself alone. ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD. * * * * * LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.