Lord, not my will, but thine, be done;
  If I sink down
    When men to terrors leave me,
  Thy father-love still warms my breast;
  All’s for the best;
    Shall men have power to grieve me,
  When bliss eternal is my goal. 
  And thou the keeper of my soul,
    Who never will deceive me?

  Thou art my shield, as saith the Word. 
  Christ Jesus, Lord,
    Thou standest pitying by me,
  And lookest on each grief of mine
  And if ’t were thine: 
    What, then, though foes may try me. 
  Though thorns be in my path concealed? 
  World, do thy worst!  God is my shield! 
    And will be ever nigh me.

Translated from MARY, QUEEN OF HUNGARY.

* * * * *

DESIRE.

  Thou, who dost dwell alone;
  Thou, who dost know thine own;
  Thou, to whom all are known,
  From the cradle to the grave,—­
    Save, O, save!

  From the world’s temptations;
  From tribulations;
  From that fierce anguish
  Wherein we languish;
  From that torpor deep
  Wherein we lie asleep,
  Heavy as death, cold as the grave,—­
    Save, O, save!

  When the soul, growing clearer,
  Sees God no nearer;
  When the soul, mounting higher,
  To God comes no nigher;
  But the arch-fiend Pride
  Mounts at her side,
  Foiling her high emprize,
  Sealing her eagle eyes,
  And, when she fain would soar,
  Make idols to adore;
  Changing the pure emotion
  Of her high devotion,
  To a skin-deep sense
  Of her own eloquence;
  Strong to deceive, strong to enslave,—­
    Save, O, save!

  From the ingrained fashion
  Of this earthly nature
  That mars thy creature;
  From grief, that is but passion;
  From mirth, that is but feigning;
  From tears, that bring no healing;
  From wild and weak complaining;—­
  Thine old strength revealing,
    Save, O, save!

  From doubt, where all is doable,
  Where wise men are not strong;
  Where comfort turns to trouble;
  Where just men suffer wrong;
  Where sorrow treads on joy;
  Where sweet things soonest cloy;
  Where faiths are built on dust;
  Where love is half mistrust,
  Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea;
    O, set us free!

  O, let the false dream fly
  Where our sick souls do lie,
  Tossing continually. 
  O, where thy voice doth come,
  Let all doubts be dumb;
  Let all words be mild;
  All strife be reconciled;
  All pains beguiled. 
  Light brings no blindness;
  Love no unkindness;
  Knowledge no ruin;
  Fear no undoing,
  From the cradle to the grave,—­
    Save, O, save!

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

* * * * *

WHY THUS LONGING?

  Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
    For the far off, unattained, and dim,
  While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
    Offers up its low perpetual hymn?