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VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

159

Through strife comes the conquest; when trials

attend,

And dangers and conflicts around thee increase; Never mind, never mind! when the struggle shall

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Comes the voice of rejoicing, the sweet tones of

peace.

Through toil comes repose: if at midsummer noon The heat has o'erpowered thee, and labour oppressed;

Never mind, never mind! for the cool evening soon In the sweetness of slumber shall soothe thee to

rest.

Through the cross comes the crown; when the cares of this life,

Like giants in strength, may to crush thee com-bine,

Never mind, never mind! after sorrow's sad strife, Shall the peace and the crown of salvation be

thine.

Through woe comes delight: if at evening thou sigh,
And thy soul still at midnight in sorrow appears;
Never mind, never mind! for the morning is nigh,
Whose sunbeams of gladness shall dry up thy

tears!

160

A CITY STREET.

Through death comes our life: to the portal of

pain,

Through Time's thistle fields are our weary steps driven;

Never mind, never mind! through this passage we

gain

The mansions of light, and the portals of heaven.

A City Street.

BY MARY HOWITT.

I LOVE the fields, the woods, the streams,
The wild flowers fresh and sweet,

And yet I love no less than these,
The crowded city street;

For haunts of man, where'er they be,
Awake my deepest sympathy.

I see within the city street,
Life's most extreme estates,
The gorgeous domes of palaces,
The prison's doleful gates:

161

A CITY STREET.

The hearths by household virtues blest,
The dens that are the serpent's nest.

I see the rich man, proudly fed
And richly clothed, pass by;
I see the shivering, homeless wretch,
With hunger in his eye;

For life's severest contrasts meet
For ever in the city street.

And lofty, princely palaces-
What dreary deeds of woe,
What untold, mortal agonies

Their arras chambers know!
Yet is without all smooth and fair
As Heaven's blue dome of summer air.

And even the portliest citizen

Within his doors doth hide

Some household grief, some secret care,

From all the world beside;

It ever was, it must be so,
For human heritage is woe!

Hence is it that a city street
Can deepest thought impart,

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For all its people, high and low,
Are kindred to my heart;
And with a yearning love I share
In all their joys, their pain, their care.

Coo Late.

BY ABDY.

Too late too late!

How heavily that phrase

Comes, like a knell, upon the shuddering ear, Telling of slighted duties, wasted days,

Of privileges lost, of hopes once dear

Now quenched in gloom and darkness. Words

like these

The worldling's callous heart must penetrate; All that he might have been in thought he sees, And sorrows o'er his present wreck—too late.

Too late-too late! The prodigal, who strays Through the dim groves and winding bowers of

sin;

The cold and false deceiver, who betrays

The trusting heart he fondly toiled to win;

TOO LATE.

The spendthrift, scattering his golden store,
And left in age despised and desolate,
All may their faults confess forsake, deplore,
Yet struggle to retrieve the past-too late.

163

Too late-too late! O dark and fatal ban,
Is there a spell thy terrors to assuage?
There is, there is! but seek it not for man:
Seek for the healing balm in God's own page;
Read of thy Saviour's love, to him repair;
He looks with pity on thy guilty state;
Kneel at his throne in deep and fervent prayer,
Kneel and repent, ere yet it be-too late.

Too late too late! That direful sound portends
Sorrow on earth, but not immortal pain;

Thou mayst have lost the confidence of friends,
The love of kindred thou mayst ne'er regain;
But there is One above, who marks thy tears,

And opes for thee salvation's golden gate; Come, then, poor mourner, cast away thy fears; Believe, and enter-it is not too late!

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