In Haman’s pomp poor Mardocheus wept,
  Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe;
  The Lazar pined while Dives’ feast was kept,
  Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go. 
  We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May,
  Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

* * * * *

THE RIGHT MUST WIN.

  O, it is hard to work for God,
    To rise and take his part
  Upon this battle-field of earth,
    And not sometimes lose heart!

  He hides himself so wondrously,
    As though there were no God;
  He is least seen when all the powers
    Of ill are most abroad.

  Or he deserts us at the hour
    The fight is all but lost;
  And seems to leave us to ourselves
    Just when we need him most.

  Ill masters good, good seems to change
    To ill with greater ease;
  And, worst of all, the good with good
    Is at cross-purposes.

  Ah!  God is other than we think;
    His ways are far above,
  Far beyond reason’s height, and reached
    Only by childlike love.

  Workman of God!  O, lose not heart,
    But learn what God is like;
  And in the darkest battle-field
    Thou shalt know where to strike.

  Thrice blest is he to whom is given
    The instinct that can tell
  That God is on the field when he
    Is most invisible.

  Blest, is he who can divine
    Where the real right doth lie,
  And dares to take the side that seems
    Wrong to man’s blindfold eye.

  For right is right, since God is God;
    And right the day must win;
  To doubt would be disloyalty,
    To falter would be sin!

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

* * * * *

THE COST OF WORTH.

    FROM “BITTER SWEET.”

  Thus is it all over the earth! 
    That which we call the fairest. 
  And prize for its surpassing worth,
          Is always rarest.

  Iron is heaped in mountain piles,
    And gluts the laggard forges;
  But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles
          And lonely gorges.

  The snowy marble flecks the land
    With heaped and rounded ledges,
  But diamonds hide within the sand
          Their starry edges.

  The finny armies clog the twine
    That sweeps the lazy river,
  But pearls come singly from the brine
          With the pale diver.

  God gives no value unto men
    Unmatched by meed of labor;
  And Cost of Worth has ever been
          The closest neighbor.

* * * * *

  All common good has common price;
    Exceeding good, exceeding;
  Christ bought the keys of Paradise
          By cruel bleeding;

  And every soul that wins a place
    Upon its hills of pleasure,
  Must give it all, and beg for grace
          To fill the measure.