"ALL THINGS ARE YOURS."

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"ALL THINGS ARE YOURS."

I own no lands, I hoard no golden treasure;
No roof is mine beneath the sky's broad dome;
Yet rich I am, and hold in ample measure

Estates in fee, and everywhere a home.

Each flower is mine that by its beauty lures me,
Each bird that lifts me on its tide of song,
Each star that by its steadfastness assures me
Its Maker, God, in patience watcheth long.

The fields are mine when first they take their green

ness,

And softly yield beneath my pressing feet;

The hills are mine when they rebuke my meanness, And lead me up, their larger faith to meet.

All things are mine that fill my soul's deep longing, Or cheer my heart along the ways I plod;

I find a home and sweet thoughts round me thronging Where'er I stand amid the works of God.

C. A. HUMPHREYS.

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OUR SAINTS.

OUR SAINTS.

"Tis not alone from legend and old story,
'Tis not alone from canvas, dark with time,
That holy saints, crowned with celestial glory,
Smile down upon us from their height sublime.

Not only from church windows, colored brightly,
Do their blest shadows fall across our way;
Ah, not alone in niches gleaming whitely,

With folded hands, do they stand night and day.

Who is there in this world who has not, hidden
Deep in his heart, a picture, clear or faint,
Veiled, sacred, to the outer world forbidden,
O'er which he bends and murmurs low, "My
saint."

A face, perhaps, all written o'er with sorrow,
Whose faded eyes are dim with unshed tears;
And yet they hopefully look toward the morrow,
And far beyond it, into brighter spheres.

A face, whence all the sunshine of the morning
And brightness of the noon have passed away;

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

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And yet where clearly, surely, there is dawning
The wondrous radiance of that perfect day.

That perfect day-when crowned with Heaven's brightness,

Without a pain, or care, or mortal need,

With conqueror's palm, in robe of snowy whiteness, Our blest shall stand, as very saints indeed.

Yes, God be thanked! though the pure saints of story,

And holy martyrs that the artist paints,

Are veiled in radiance and crowned with glory,
There still are halos for these unknown saints.

A. R. M.

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

O FRIENDS! with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer,

Glad witness to your zeal for God

And love of men I bear.

I trace your lines of argument,
Your logic linked and strong;

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THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds;
Against the words ye bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?
Who talks of scheme and plan?
The Lord is God! He needeth not
The poor device of man.

walk with bare, hushed feet the ground

Ye tread with boldness shod;

I dare not fix with mete and bound
The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice; even such
His pitying love I deem;

Ye seek a king; I fain would touch
The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods
A world of pain and loss;

I hear our Lord's beatitudes

THE ETERNAL GOGDNESS.

More than your schoolmen teach, within

Myself, alas! I know;

Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,

Too small the merit show.

I bow my forehead to the dust,
I veil mine eyes for shame,
And urge, in trembling self-distrust,
A prayer without a claim.

I see the

wrong that round me lies,

I feel the guilt within;

I hear, with groan and travail-cries,
The world confess its sin:

Yet, in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
To one fixed stake my spirit clings:
I know that God is good!

Not mine to look when cherubim

And seraphs may not see,

But nothing can be good in Him

Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below

I dare not throne above;

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