No house so safely guarded is
  But he, by some device of his,
      Can enter;
  No heart hath armor so complete
  But he can pierce with arrows fleet
      Its centre.

  For all at last the cock will crow
  Who hear the warning voice, but go
      Unheeding,
  Till thrice and more they have denied
  The Man of Sorrows, crucified
      And bleeding.

  One look of that pale suffering face
  Will make us feel the deep disgrace
      Of weakness;
  We shall be sifted till the strength
  Of self-conceit be changed at length
      To meekness.

  Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache;
  The reddening scars remain, and make
      Confession;
  Lost innocence returns no more;
  We are not what we were before
      Transgression.

  But noble souls, through dust and heat,
  Rise from disaster and defeat
      The stronger. 
  And conscious still of the divine
  Within them, lie on earth supine
      No longer.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

VANITY.

  The sun comes up and the sun goes down,
  And day and night are the same as one;
  The year grows green, and the year grows brown. 
  And what is it all, when all is done? 
  Grains of sombre or shining sand,
  Gliding into and out of the hand.

  And men go down in ships to the seas,
  And a hundred ships are the same as one;
  And backward and forward blows the breeze,
  And what is it all, when all is done? 
  A tide with never a shore in sight
  Getting steadily on to the night.

  The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
  And a hundred streams are the same as one;
  And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream,
  And what is it all, when all is done? 
  The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
  And alway the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

DIFFERENT MINDS.

  Some murmur when their sky is clear
    And wholly bright to view,
  If one small speck of dark appear
    In their great heaven of blue;
  And some with thankful love are filled
    If but one streak of light,
  One ray of God’s good mercy, gild
    The darkness of their night.

  In palaces are hearts that ask,
    In discontent and pride,
  Why life is such a dreary task,
    And all good things denied;
  And hearts in poorest huts admire
    How Love has in their aid
  (Love that not ever seems to tire)
    Such rich provision made.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

* * * * *

MY RECOVERY.