WITHOUT haste! without rest!
Bind the motto to thy breast;
Bear it with thee as a spell;
Storm or sunshine, guard it well!
Heed not flowers that round thee bloom,
Bear it onward to the tomb!

Haste not! Let no thoughtless deed
Mar for aye the spirit's speed!
Ponder well, and know the right, '
Onward then, and know thy might!
Haste not! years can ne'er atone
For one reckless action done.

Rest not! Life is sweeping by,
Go and dare, before you die ;
Something mighty and sublime
Leave behind to conquer time!
Glorious 'tis to live for aye,
When these forms have pass'd away.
Haste not! rest not! calmly wait;
Meekly bear the storms of fate!
Duty be thy polar guide;
Do the right, whate'er betide!
Haste not! rest not! conflicts past,

God shall crown thy work at last.-Goethe.

946. DUTY: must be strictly adhered to.

To what gulfs

A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads !-Byron.

947. DUTY. Our

THY sum of duty let two words contain ; Oh may they graven in thy heart remain : Be humble and be just.—Prior. What is our duty here? To tend

From good to better-thence to best; Grateful to drink life's cup-then bend

Unmurmuring to our bed of rest; To pluck the flowers that round us blow, Scattering our fragrance as we go.—Bowring.

548 DUTY. Results of

YET do thy work; it shall succeed
In thine or in another's day;

And if denied the victor's meed,
Thou shalt not lack the toiler's pay.

Faith shares the future's promise; Love's
Self-offering is a triumph won ;
And each good thought or action moves
The dark world nearer to the sun.

Then faint not, falter not, nor plead

Thy weakness; truth itself is strong; The lion's strength, the eagle's speed,

Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.

Hast thou not, on some week of storm,

Seen the sweet Sabbath breaking fair,
And cloud and shadow, sunlit, form
The curtains of its tent of prayer?

So, haply, when thy task shall end,
The wrong shall lose itself in right,
And all thy week-day darkness blend
With the long Sabbath of the light!
Whittier.

949. DUTY. Rewards of

WHY thus longing, thus for ever sighing,
For the far-off, unattain'd and dim,
While the beautiful all around thee lying
Offers up its low perpetual hymn?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearnings it would still;
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw-
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee
To some little world through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten-
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten,
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,
Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Harriet Winslow.

950. DUTY. The nearest

SAD, without hope, I watch'd the falling rain;
One drop alone could not refresh the tree,
But drop on drop, till from its deepest root
The giant oak drank life and liberty.
Refresh'd, like nature, I arose to try
And do the duty which should nearest lie;

And ere I knew my work was half begun,
The noble deed I sought in vain was done.
I sought to do some mighty act of good,
That I might prove how well my soul had striven.
I waited, while the days and hours pass'd by,
Yet bore no incense of my deed to heaven.

951. DUTY: the path to blessedness.

'HADST thou stay'd, I must have fled !' That is what the Vision said.

In his chamber, all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Pray'd the monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision;
Pray'd for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial:
It was noon-day by the dial,
And the monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lighten'd,
An unwonted splendour brighten'd
All within him and without him,
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the blessed vision
Of our Lord, with light elysian,
Like a vesture wrapp'd about Him,
Like a garment round Him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,

Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field,

Halt and lame and blind He heal'd,
When He walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom cross'd,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the monk in rapture lost:

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I, that thus Thou deignest
To reveal Thyself to me!
Who am I, that, from the centre
Of Thy glory, thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my Guest to be!

Then, amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent-bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor,
With persistent iteration
He had never heard before.

It was now the appointed hour,
When, alike in shine or shower,.

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent-portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;

And their almoner was he

Who, upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy

Of divinest self-surrender,

Saw the Vision and the Splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration :

Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent-gate,
Till the Vision pass'd away?
Should he slight his heavenly Guest,
Slight this Visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent-gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast
Whisper'd, audible and clear,
As if to the outward ear,
'Do thy duty; that is best:
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!'
Straightway to his feet he started,
And, with longing look intent
On the blessed Vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those

Who, amid their wants and woes,
Hear the sound of doors that close,
And of feet that pass them by ;
Grown familiar with disfavour,
Grown familiar with the savour
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they knew not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seem'd the convent-gate to rise;
Like a sacrament divine

Seem'd to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,-
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see:
And the inward voice was saying,
'Whatsoever thing thou doest

To the least of mine, and lowest,
That thou doest unto me!'

Unto me! but had the Vision
Come to him in beggar's clothing,
Come, a mendicant, imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listen'd with derision,
And have turn'd away with loathing?
Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Towards his cell he turn'd his face,
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of the door;
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent-bell appalling
From its belfry, calling, calling,
Summon'd him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return;
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the blessed Vision said,
'Hadst thou stay'd, I must have fled.'
Longfellow.

952. DUTY. Time for

WHATE'ER our thoughts or purpose be,
They cannot reach their destined end,
Unless, O God, they go with Thee,

And with Thy thoughts and purpose blend.
Keep time with God, and then the power,
Which in His mighty arm doth lie,
Shall crown the designated hour

With wisdom, strength, and victory.

Be not too fast, be not too slow;
Be not too early, not too late;
Go, where His orders bid thee go;

Wait, when His orders bid thee wait.

Keep time with God, await His call;
And step by step march boldly on;
And thus thou shalt not faint nor fall,
And thus shalt wear the victor's crown.

953. DUTY: to be done fearlessly.

Upham.

TIME was I shrank from what was right
From fear of what was wrong ;

I would not brave the sacred fight,
Because the foe was strong.

See Him, who with sound of trumpet,
And with His angelic train,
Summoning the world to judgment,
On the clouds shall come again.

Lift us up from earth to heaven,
Give us wings of faith and love,
Gales of holy aspiration

Wafting us to realms above;
That, with hearts and minds uplifted,
We with Christ our Lord may dwell,
Where He sits enthroned in glory
In the heavenly citadel,

So at last, when He appeareth,

We from out our graves may spring, With our youth renew'd like eagles', Flocking round our heavenly King, Caught up on the clouds of heaven,

And may meet Him in the air, Rise to realms where He is reigning, And may reign for ever there.

957. DYING. Words of the

C. Wordsworth.

THE tongues of dying men

Enforce attention like deep harmony;

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.

He that no more must say is listen'd more

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before :
The setting sun, and music at the close,

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last;
Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
Shakespeare.

958. EARLY DEATH: an honour. THOU hast honour'd my child with the speed of Thy choice,

Thou hast crown'd him with glory, o'erwhelm'd him with mirth;

He sings up in heaven, with his sweet-sounding voice, While I, a saint's mother, am weeping on earth.

Yet oh for that voice, which is thrilling through

heaven,

One moment my ears with its music to slake; Oh no! not for worlds would I have him regiven,

Yet I long to have back what I would not retake.

I grudge him, and grudge him not! Father, Thou knowest

The foolish confusions of innocent sorrow;

It is thus in Thy husbandry, Saviour: Thou sowest The grief of to-day for the grace of to-morrow.

Faber.

959. EARLY DEATH: Jewish Apologue.
Up and down his gardens paced a king,
In the glorious season of the spring.
Lovely flow'rets there by him were seen
In their earliest bud and blossoming.
How should he those lovely flow'rets pull,
Half whose glory lay a hidden thing?
When a few short days were gone, again
Visited his garden-plots the king:

And those flowers, so dewy, fresh, and fair,
Brighter than the brightest insect's wing,

Each was hanging now a drooping head,
Each lay now a wan, discolour'd thing:
And he thought, Their scent and sweetness I
Had rejoiced in, earlier gathering.

So when in his gardens of delight

Did that monarch pace another spring,
And the folded buds again admired,
That did round them fragrant odour fling,
He with timely hand prevented now
The sad season of their withering,
Cull'd them in the glory of their prime,
Ere their fresh delight had taken wing.
Cull'd the young and beautiful, and laid
In his bosom gently, home to bring.-Trench.

960. EARLY DEATH: not an evil. THEN round our death-bed every friend should run, And joy us of our conquest early won.-Dryden. 'Whom the gods love die young' was said of yore,

And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends, and that which slays even more, The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore

Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,

Byron.

Death came with friendly care, The opening bud to heaven convey'd, And bade it blossom there.-Coleridge,

A lovely bud, so soft and fair,

Call'd hence by early doom;