400. CAUSE. Unseen

WE see but half the causes of our deeds,
Seeking them wholly in the outer life,
And heedless of the encircling spirit-world,
Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us
All germs of pure and world-wide purposes.
From one stage of our being to the next
We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge,
The momentary work of unseen hands,

Which crumbles down behind us; looking back,
We see the other shore, the gulf between,
And, marvelling how we won to where we stand,
Content ourselves to call the builder Chance.
We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall,
Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth
Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb,
Yet yearn'd to be incarnate, and had found
At last a spirit meet to be the womb

From which it might be born to bless mankind,-
Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all
The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years,
And waiting but one ray of sunlight more
To blossom fully.

But whence came that ray?
We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought
Rather to name our high successes so.
Only the instincts of great souls are Fate,
And have predestined sway: all other things,
Except by leave of us, could never be.
For Destiny is but the breath of God
Still moving us, the last fragment left
Of our unfallen nature, waking oft
Within our thought, to beckon us beyond
The narrow circle of the seen and known,
And always tending to a noble end,
As all things must that overrule the soul,
And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will.

401. CAUTION.

Lowell.

WHEN clouds are seen wise men put on their cloaks;
When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;
When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?
Untimely storms make men expect a dearth:
All may be well; but if God sort it so,
"Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.

Shakespeare.
Who 'scapes the snare
Once, has a certain caution to beware.

Chapman.

They that fear the adder's sting, will not come
Near his hissing.-Chapman.

None pities him that's in the snare,
And, warn'd before, would not beware.

Herrick.

CEREMONY was but devised at first,

To set a gloss on faint deeds,-hollow welcomes,
Recanting goodness, sorry e'er 'tis shown;
But where there is true friendship, there needs none.
Shakespeare.

405. CEREMONY. Mockery of

AND what art thou, thou idol, ceremony?
What kind of good art thou? that sufferest more
Of mortal grief than do thy worshippers.
What are thy rents? What are thy comings in?
O ceremony, show me but thy worth:
What is thy toll, O adoration?

THE lopped tree in time may grow again;
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower; Times go by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal time to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;

No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;
No endless night, yet no eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing;

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish,
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,
Who least hath some, who most hath never all.
Southwell.

410. CHARACTER: a web woven in secret. THERE is a little spider

Who weaves a web so fine

It might be lying at your feet,
With every thread in it complete,
And you not see a line.

But early morning shows it,

Agleam with pearly dew;
And in the rising sun it lies,
Bright as the walls of Paradise,
With gems of every hue.

So you and I are weavers,

And only God can see

The woof and warp of deed and thought
By which the wondrous robe is wrought
That covers you and me.

God keep our hands from evil,

And cleanse our hearts from sin,
That when the final morn shall break,
Enough be done for Jesus' sake

Eternal praise to win.--Helen A. Goodwin.

So build we up the being that we are,
Thus drinking in the soul of things,

We shall be wise perforce; and while inspired
By choice, and conscious that the will is free,
Unswerving shall we move, as if impell'd

By strict necessity along the path

Of order and of good. Whate'er we see,
Whate'er we feel by agency direct

Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse

Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats
Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights
Of love divine, our intellectual soul.—Wordsworth.

412. CHARACTER. Grades of

THE Scale

Of being is a graduated thing;
And deeper than the vanities of power,
Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ
Gradation, in its hidden characters.
The pathway to the grave may be the same,
And the proud man shall tread it, and the ow,

With his bow'd head, shall bear him company.
Decay will make no difference, and death,
With his cold hand, shall make no difference;
And there will be no precedence of power,
In waking at the coming trump of God;
But in the temper of the invisible mind,
The godlike and undying intellect,

There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!
The elevated brow of kings will lose
The impress of regalia, and the slave
Will wear his immortality as free,
Beside the crystal waters; but the depth
Of glory in the attributes of God
Will measure the capacities of mind;
And as the angels differ, will the ken
Of gifted spirits glorify Him more.
It is life's mystery. The soul of man
Createth its own destiny of power;
And, as the trial is intenser here,
His being hath a nobler strength in heaven.

415. CHARITIES. Trifling THE blessings which the poor and weak can scatter Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarian juices Renew the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort, which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourn'd, 'twill fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again.—Talfourd.

416. CHARITY: its impulses to be obeyed.

WHEN poverty, with mien of shame,

The sense of pity seeks to touch,— Or, bolder, makes the simple claim

That, I have nothing, you have much,— Believe not either man or book

That bids you close the opening hand, And with reproving speech and look, Your first and free intent withstand.

Why not believe the homely letter

That all you give will God restore? The poor man may deserve it better, And surely, surely wants it more.

417. CHARITY: its rewards.

R. M. Milnes.

CHARITY ever

Finds in the act reward, and needs no trumpet In the receiver.-Beaumont and Fletcher.

Great minds, like Heaven, are pleased in doing good,
Though the ungrateful subjects of their favours
Are barren in return.-Rowe.

Think not the good,

The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done,
Shall die forgotten all: the poor, the pris'ner,
The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow,
Who daily own the bounty of thy hand,
Shall cry to Heaven, and pull a blessing on thee.
Roze.

Nothing truly can be term'd mine own
But what I make mine own by using well.
Those deeds of charity which we have done
Shall stay for ever with us: and that wealth
Which we have so bestow'd, we only keep;
The other is not ours.-Middleton.

The secret pleasure of a generous act
Is the great mind's great bribe.-Dryden.
The liberal are secure alone;

For what we frankly give, for ever is our own.
Granville.

418. CHARITY: must not be confined to gifts of money.

WERE we as rich in charity of deed

As gold, what rock would bloom not with the seed?
We give our alms and cry, 'What can we more?'
One hour of time were worth a load of ore!
Give to the ignorant our own wisdom! give
Sorrow our comfort! lend to those who live
In crime the counsels of our virtue! share
With souls our souls, and Satan shall despair!
Bulwer Lytton.

Hassan says, Whose prayer is pure

Will God's chastisements endure.'
Malik from a deeper sense
Utter'd his experience:

'He who loves his Master's choice
Will in chastisement rejoice.'
Rabia saw some selfish will
In their maxims lingering still,
And replied, 'O men of grace!
He who sees his Master's face
Will not in his prayer recall

That he is chastised at all.'-Oriental.

425. CHASTITY. Defence of

So dear to heaven is saintly chastity
That when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liv'ried angels lacquey her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.
Milton.

426. CHASTITY. Maxim of

WHILE thirst of praise and vain desire of fame

In ev'ry age is ev'ry woman's aim;
With courtship pleased, of silly trifles proud,
Fond of a train, and happy in a crowd;
On each proud fop bestowing some kind glance,
Each conquest owing to some loose advance;
While vain coquettes affect to be pursued,
And think they're virtuous, if not grossly lewd;
Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide :
In part she is to blame who has been tried,
He comes too near who comes to be denied.
Lady Montagu.

427. CHEERFULNESS: encouraged.

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,
Oh why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,

Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in,

And calls our best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,

O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquer'd, though she fell;

Resolved to be merry,

All worry to ferry

Across the famed waters that bid us forget,

And no longer fearful,

But happy and cheerful,

We feel life has much that's worth living for yet.
Georgiana C. Clark.

429. CHEERFULNESS: its wisdom.
THERE is many a rest on the road of life,
If we would only stop to take it;
And many a tone from the better land,
If the querulous heart would wake it.
To the sunny soul that is full of hope,
And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth,

The grass is green and the flowers are bright,
Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
When the ominous clouds are rifted;
There was never a night without a day,
Nor an evening without a morning;
And the darkest hour, the proverb goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.
There is many a gem in the path of life,
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than a jewell'd crown,
Or the miser's hoarded treasure;
It may be the love of a little child,
Or a mother's prayer to heaven,
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks,
For a cup of water given.

Better to weave in the web of life
A bright and golden filling,
And to do God's will with a ready heart,

And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate silver threads
Of curious lives asunder;

And then blame heaven for the tangled ends, And sit, and grieve, and wonder.

I MOURN no more my vanish'd years:
Beneath a tender rain,

An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and singing low
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward, nor behind,

I look in hope and fear :
But grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now, and here.

I plough no more a desert land
For harvest, weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.