SERVICE

I have done at length with dreaming; Henceforth, O thou soul of mine! Thou must take up sword and buckler, Waging warfare most divine. Life is struggle, combat, victory! Wherefore have I slumbered on With my forces all unmarshaled, With my weapons all undrawn? O how many a glorious record Had the angels of me kept Had I done instead of doubted, Had I warred instead of wept! But begone, regret, bewailing! Ye had weakened at the best; I have tried the trusty weapons Resting erst within my breast. I have wakened to my duty, To a knowledge strong and deep, That I recked not of aforetime, In my long inglorious sleep. For the end of life is service, And I felt it not before, And I dreamed not how stupendous Was the meaning that it bore. In this subtle sense of being, Newly stirred in every vein, I can feel a throb electric— Pleasure half allied with pain. 'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful, So bewildering, yet brave, To be king in every conflict Where before I crouched a slave! 'Tis so glorious to be conscious Of a growing power within Stronger than the rallying forces Of a charged and marshaled sin! Never in those old romances Felt I half the thrill of life That I feel within me stirring, Standing in this place of strife. O those olden days of dalliance, When I wantoned with my fate; When I trifled with the knowledge That had well-nigh come too late. Yet, my soul, look not behind thee; Thou hast work to do at last; Let the brave toil of the present Overarch the crumbling past. Build thy great acts high and higher; Build them on the conquered sod Where thy weakness first fell bleeding, And thy first prayer rose to God. —Caroline Atherton Mason.

A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows; And age was pleased, in heat of noon, to bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs the birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill, It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown—a transitory breath— It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last!

—Charles Mackay.

O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed and agonized, With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor, anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer, self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burden of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better—saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love— That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, Unread forever. This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty— Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. —George Eliot.

To love some one more dearly ev'ry day, To help a wandering child to find his way, To ponder o'er a noble thought, and pray, And smile when evening falls. To follow truth as blind men long for light, To do my best from dawn of day till night, To keep my heart fit for His holy sight, And answer when He calls. —Maude Louise Ray.

Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven; Give! as the waves when their channel is riven; Give! as the free air and sunshine are given; Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give! Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing; Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing; Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing: Give as He gave thee who gave thee to live. Pour out thy love like the rush of a river, Wasting its waters, forever and ever, Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver: Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea. Scatter thy life as the summer's shower pouring; What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring? What if no blossom looks upward adoring? Look to the life that was lavished for thee! So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses: Evil and thankless the desert it blesses; Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses; Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses? What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes? Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes, Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling. Almost the day of thy giving is over; Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover: What shall thy longing avail in the grave? Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking— Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking; Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking, Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave. —Rose Terry Cooke.

There are so many helpful things to do Along life's way (Helps to the helper, if we did but know), From day to day. So many troubled hearts to soothe, So many pathways rough to smooth, So many comforting words to say, To the hearts that falter along the way. Here is a lamp of hope gone out Along the way. Some one stumbled and fell, no doubt— But, brother, stay! Out of thy store of oil refill; Kindle the courage that smoulders still; Think what Jesus would do to-day For one who had fallen beside the way. How many lifted hands still plead Along life's way! The old, sad story of human need Reads on for aye. But let us follow the Saviour's plan— Love unstinted to every man; Content if, at most, the world should say: "He helped his brother along the way!"

Is thy cruse of comfort failing? Rise and share it with another, And through all the years of famine It shall serve thee and thy brother. Love divine will fill thy storehouse Or thy handful still renew; Scanty fare for one will often Make a royal feast for two. For the heart grows rich in giving— All its wealth is living gain; Seeds which mildew in the garner Scattered fill with gold the plain. Is thy burden hard and heavy? Do thy steps drag wearily? Help to bear thy brother's burden; God will bear both it and thee. Numb and weary on the mountains, Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow? Chafe that frozen form beside thee, And together both shall glow. Art thou stricken in life's battle? Many wounded round thee moan: Lavish on their wounds thy balsam, And that balm shall heal thine own. Is thy heart a well left empty? None but God the void can fill. Nothing but the ceaseless Fountain Can its ceaseless longings still. Is the heart a living power? Self-entwined its strength sinks low. It can only live in loving, And by serving love will grow.

A certain wise man, deeply versed In all the learning of the East, Grew tired in spirit, and athirst From life to be released. So to Eliab, holy man Of God he came: "Ah, give me, friend, The herb of death, that now the span Of my vain life may end." Eliab gently answered: "Ere The soul may free itself indeed, This herb of healing thou must bear To seven men in need; "When thou hast lightened each man's grief, And brought him hope and joy again, Return; nor shalt thou seek relief At Allah's hands in vain." The wise man sighed, and humbly said: "As Allah willeth, so is best." And with the healing herb he sped Away upon his quest. And as he journeyed on, intent To serve the sorrowing in the land On deeds of love and mercy bent, The herb bloomed in his hand, And through his pulses shot a fire Of strength and hope and happiness; His heart leaped with a glad desire To live and serve and bless. Lord of all earthly woe and need, Be this, life's flower, mine! To love, to comfort, and to heal— Therein is life divine! —Josephine Troup.

For strength we ask For the ten thousand times repeated task, The endless smallnesses of every day. No, not to lay My life down in the cause I cherish most, That were too easy. But, whate'er it cost, To fail no more In gentleness toward the ungentle, nor In love toward the unlovely, and to give, Each day I live, To every hour with outstretched hand, its meed Of not-to-be-regretted thought and deed. —Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald.

I cannot choose; I should have liked so much To sit at Jesus' feet—to feel the touch Of his kind gentle hand upon my head While drinking in the gracious words he said. And yet to serve Him!—Oh, divine employ— To minister and give the Master joy; To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet, And wait upon Him while He sat at meat! Worship or service—which? Ah, that is best To which he calls us, be it toil or rest; To labor for Him in life's busy stir, Or seek His feet, a silent worshiper. —Caroline Atherton Mason.

This is the gospel of labor—ring it, ye bells of the kirk— The Lord of Love came down from above to live with the men who work. This is the rose that he planted, here in the thorn-cursed soil; Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil.

—Henry van Dyke.

Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve! Not all with tranquil heart, Even at Thy dear feet, Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart! Yes, Lord! Yet some must bear The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at Thy feet May muse and pray. Yes, Lord! Yet some must do Life's daily task-work; some Who fain would sing must toil Amid earth's dust and moil, While lips are dumb! Yes, Lord! Yet man must earn And woman bake the bread; And some must watch and wake Early for others' sake, Who pray instead! Yes, Lord! Yet even thou Hast need of earthly care; I bring the bread and wine To Thee a Guest divine— Be this my prayer! —Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

If we sit down at set of sun And count the things that we have done, And counting, find One self-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind, That fell like sunshine where it went, Then we may count the day well spent. But if through all the livelong day We've eased no heart by yea or nay; If through it all We've nothing done that we can trace That brought the sunshine to a face, No act most small That helped some soul, and nothing cost, Then count that day as worse than lost.

This for the day of life I ask: Some all-absorbing, useful task; And when 'tis wholly, truly done, A tranquil rest at set of sun.

Ah! grand is the world's work, and noble, forsooth, The doing one's part, be it ever so small! You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth, Are honored by serving, yet servants of all.

No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels; No serf in the field but is sowing God's seed— More noble, I think, in the dust though he kneels, Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed.

Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind, But think of the grist, what is done and to do, The world growing better, more like to God's mind, By long, faithful labor of helpers like you.

The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that plies Its own honest task in its own honest way, Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies— What more could the Pleiades do than obey?

—James Buckham.

If no kindly thought or word We can give, some soul to bless, If our hands, from hour to hour, Do no deeds of gentleness; If to lone and weary ones We no comfort will impart— Tho' 'tis summer in the sky, Yet 'tis winter in the heart! If we strive to lift the gloom From a dark and burdened life; If we seek to lull the storm Of our fallen brother's strife; If we bid all hate and scorn From the spirit to depart— Tho' 'tis winter in the sky, Yet 'tis summer in the heart!

Idlers all day about the market-place They name us, and our dumb lips answer not, Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace, And our dark tasking whereof none may wot. Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go!— Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear, But we who on the market-stones drop slow Our barren tears, while all the bright hours wear. Lord of the vineyard, whose dear word declares Our one hour's labor as the day's shall be, What coin divine can make our wage as theirs Who had the morning joy of work for Thee? —L. Gray Noble.

"I have labored in vain," a preacher said, And his brow was marked with care; "I have labored in vain." He bowed down his head, And bitter and sad were the tears he shed In that moment of dark despair. "I am weary and worn, and my hands are weak, And my courage is well-nigh gone; For none give heed to the words I speak, And in vain for a promise of fruit I seek Where the seed of the Word is sown." And again with a sorrowful heart he wept, For his spirit with grief was stirred, Till the night grew dark, and at last he slept, And a silent calm o'er his spirit crept, And a whisper of "peace" was heard. And he thought in his dream that his soul took flight To a blessed and bright abode; He saw a throne of dazzling light, And harps were ringing, and robes were white— Made white in a Saviour's blood. And he saw such a countless throng around As he never had seen before, Their brows with jewels of light were crowned, And sorrow and sighing no place had found— The troubles of time were o'er. Then a white-robed maiden came forth and said, "Joy! Joy! for the trials are passed! I am one that thy gentle words have led In the narrow pathway of life to tread— I welcome thee home at last!" And the preacher gazed on the maiden's face— He had seen that face on earth, Where, with anxious heart, in his wonted place He had told his charge of a Saviour's grace, And their need of a second birth. Then the preacher smiled, and the angel said, "Go forth to thy work again; It is not in vain that the seed is shed— If only one soul to the cross is led, Thy labor is not in vain." And at last he woke, and his knee he bent In grateful, childlike prayer, And he prayed till an answer of peace was sent, And Faith and Hope as a rainbow bent O'er the clouds of his earthly care. And he rose in joy, and his eye was bright. His sorrow and grief had fled, And his soul was calm and his heart was light, For his hands were strong in his Saviour's might As forth to his work he sped.

Whatever dies, or is forgot— Work done for God, it dieth not.

I asked the Lord that I might worthier be, Might grow in faith and hope and charity; And straight, "Go feed my lambs!" he answered me. "Nay, Lord!" I cried. "Can outward deeds avail To cleanse my spirit? Heart and courage fail And sins prevent, and foes and fears assail." And still, "Go, feed my lambs!" was all I heard. But should I rest upon that simple word? Was that, indeed, my message from my Lord? Behold, I thought that he his hand would lay On my sick soul, and words of healing say, And charm the plague-spot from my heart away. Half wroth, I turned to go; but oh! the look He on me cast—a gaze I could not brook; With deep relentings all my spirit shook. "O dearest Lord," I cried, "I will obey, Say what thou wilt! only lead thou the way; For, following thee, my footsteps shall not stray." He took me at my word. He went before; He led me to the dwellings of the poor, Where wolf-eyed Want keeps watch beside the door. He beckoned me, and I essayed to go Where Sin and Crime, more sad than Want and Woe, Hold carnival, and Vice walks to and fro. And when I faltered at the sight, He said, "Behold, I died for such! These hands have bled, This side for such has pierced been," he said. "Is the disciple greater than his Lord? The servant than his Master?" Oh, that word! It smote me like a sharp, two-edged sword! And since that hour, if any work of mine Has been accepted by my Lord as sign That I was following in his steps divine; If, serving others (though imperfectly), My own poor life has worthier come to be, And I have grown in faith and charity, Dear Lord, be thine the glory! Thou hast wrought, All unaware, the blessing that I sought. O that these lips might praise thee as they ought!

The sun gives ever; so the earth— What it can give so much 'tis worth; The ocean gives in many ways— Gives baths, gives fishes, rivers, bays; So, too, the air, it gives us breath. When it stops giving, comes in death. Give, give, be always giving; Who gives not is not living; The more you give The more you live. God's love hath in us wealth unheaped Only by giving it is reaped; The body withers, and the mind Is pent up by a selfish rind. Give strength, give thought, give deeds, give pelf, Give love, give tears, and give thyself. Give, give, be always giving, Who gives not is not living; The more we give The more we live.

Slightest actions often meet the sorest needs, For the world wants daily little kindly deeds; O, what care and sorrow you may help remove With your song and courage, sympathy and love.

The look of sympathy; the gentle word Spoken so low that only angels heard; The secret act of pure self-sacrifice, Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes; These are not lost. The silent tears that fall at dead of night Over soiled robes that once were pure and white; The prayers that rise like incense from the soul, Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole; These are not lost. The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth, When dreams had less of self and more of truth; The childhood's faith, so tranquil and so sweet, Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet; These are not lost. The kindly plans devised for others' good, So seldom guessed, so little understood; The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win Some wanderer from the ways of sin; These are not lost. Not lost, O Lord! for in Thy city bright Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light, And things long hidden from our gaze below Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know They were not lost.

There's never a rose in all the world But makes some green spray sweeter; There's never a wind in all the sky But makes some bird wing fleeter; There's never a star but brings to heaven Some silver radiance tender; And never a rosy cloud but helps To crown the sunset splendor; No robin but may thrill some heart, His dawn like gladness voicing; God gives us all some small sweet way To set the world rejoicing.

O thou who sighest for a broader field Wherein to sow the seeds of truth and right— Who fain a fuller, nobler power would wield O'er human souls that languish for the light— Search well the realm that even now is thine! Canst not thou in some far-off corner find A heart sin-bound, like tree with sapping vine, Waiting for help its burdens to unbind? Some human plant, perchance beneath thine eyes, Pierced through with hidden thorns of idle fears; Or drooping low for need of light from skies Obscured by doubt-clouds raining poison tears? Some bruisèd soul the balm of love would heal; Some timid spirit faith would courage give; Or maimèd brother, who, though brave and leal, Still needeth thee, to rightly walk and live? O while one soul thou findest which hath not known The fullest help thy soul hath power to give, Sigh not for fields still broader than thine own, But, steadfast in thine own, more broadly live. —Julia Anna Wolcott.

Be it health or be it leisure, Be it skill we have to give, Still in spending it for others Christians only really live. Not in having or receiving, But in giving, there is bliss; He who has no other pleasure Ever may rejoice in this.

I said, "Let me walk in the fields." He said, "No, walk in the town." I said, "There are no flowers there." He said, "No flowers, but a crown." I said, "But the skies are black; There is nothing but noise and din." And He wept as he sent me back; "There is more," He said; "there is sin." I said, "But the air is thick, And fogs are veiling the sun." He answered, "Yet souls are sick, And souls in the dark undone." I said, "I shall miss the light, And friends will miss me, they say." He answered, "Choose to-night If I am to miss you, or they." I pleaded for time to be given. He said, "Is it hard to decide? It will not seem hard in heaven To have followed the steps of your Guide." I cast one look at the fields, Then set my face to the town; He said, "My child, do you yield? Will you leave the flowers for the crown?" Then into His hand went mine, And into my heart came He; And I walk in a light divine The path I had feared to see. —George Macdonald.

I asked the Lord to let me do Some mighty work for Him; To fight amid His battle hosts, Then sing the victor's hymn. I longed my ardent love to show, But Jesus would not have it so. He placed me in a quiet home, Whose life was calm and still, And gave me little things to do, My daily round to fill; I could not think it good to be Just put aside so silently. Small duties gathered round my way, They seemed of earth alone; I, who had longed for conquests bright To lay before His throne, Had common things to do and bear, To watch and strive with daily care. So then I thought my prayer unheard, And asked the Lord once more That He would give me work for Him And open wide the door; Forgetting that my Master knew Just what was best for me to do. Then quietly the answer came, "My child, I hear thy cry; Think not that mighty deeds alone Will bring the victory. The battle has been planned by Me, Let daily life thy conquests see."

Have you had a kindness shown? Pass it on. It was not given to you alone, Pass it on. Let it travel through the years; Let it wipe another's tears; Till in heaven the deed appears, Pass it on. Have you found the heavenly light? Pass it on. Souls are groping in the night, Daylight gone. Lift your lighted lamp on high, Be a star in some one's sky, He may live who else would die. Pass it on.

Who gives, and hides the giving hand, Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise, Shall find his smallest gift outweighs The burden of the sea and land. Who gives to whom hath naught been given, His gift in need, though small indeed As is the grass-blade's wind-blown seed, Is large as earth and rich as heaven. —John Greenleaf Whittier, from Tinnevaluna of India.

What is the world? A wandering maze, Where sin hath tracked a thousand ways Her victims to ensnare. All broad and winding and aslope, All tempting with perfidious hope, All ending in despair. Millions of pilgrims throng those roads, Bearing their baubles or their loads Down to eternal night. One only path that never bends, Narrow and rough and steep, ascends Through darkness into light. Is there no guide to show that path? The Bible. He alone that hath The Bible need not stray. But he who hath and will not give That light of life to all that live, Himself shall lose the way.

It were not hard, we think, to serve Him If we could only see! If he would stand with that gaze intense Burning into our bodily sense, If we might look on that face most tender, The brows where the scars are turned to splendor, Might catch the light of his smile so sweet, And view the marks on his hands and feet, How loyal we should be! It were not hard, we think, to serve him, If we could only see! It were not hard, he says, to see him, If we would only serve; "He that doeth the will of Heaven, To him shall knowledge and sight be given." While for his presence we sit repining, Never we see his countenance shining; They who toil where his reapers be The glow of his smile may always see, And their faith can never swerve. It were not hard, he says, to see him, If we would only serve.

Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, Forgetful of thy Lord's commands, From Duty's claims no life is free, Behold! To-day has need of thee.

You can never tell when you do an act Just what the result will be; But with every deed you are sowing a seed, Though its harvest you may not see. Each kindly act is an acorn dropped In God's productive soil; Though you may not know, yet the tree shall grow And shelter the brows that toil.

If you cannot on the ocean Sail among the swiftest fleet, Rocking on the highest billows, Laughing at the storms you meet; You can stand among the sailors Anchored yet within the bay; You can lend a hand to help them As they launch their boat away. If you are too weak to journey Up the mountain steep and high, You can stand within the valley While the multitudes go by; You can chant in happy measure As they slowly pass along; Though they may forget the singer They will not forget the song. If you have not gold and silver Ever ready to command; If you cannot toward the needy, Reach an ever-open hand; You can visit the afflicted, O'er the erring you can weep; You can be a true disciple Sitting at the Saviour's feet. If you cannot in the harvest Garner up the richest sheaves, Many a grain both ripe and golden Will the careless reapers leave; Go and glean among the briers Growing rank against the wall, For it may be that their shadow Hides the heaviest wheat of all. If you cannot in the conflict Prove yourself a soldier true, If where fire and smoke are thickest There's no work for you to do; When the battle-field is silent You can go with careful tread: You can bear away the wounded, You can cover up the dead. If you cannot be the watchman, Standing high on Zion's wall, Pointing out the path to heaven, Offering life and peace to all; With your prayers and with your bounties You can do what Heaven demands, You can be like faithful Aaron, Holding up the prophet's hands. Do not, then, stand idly waiting For some greater work to do; Fortune is a lazy goddess— She will never come to you. Go and toil in any vineyard, Do not fear to do or dare; If you want a field of labor You can find it anywhere. —G. M. Grannis.

Golden gleams of noonday fell On the pavement of the cell, And the monk still lingered there In the ecstasy of prayer; Fuller floods of glory streamed Through the window, and it seemed Like an answering glow of love From the countenance above. On the silence of the cell Break the faint tones of a bell. 'Tis the hour when at the gate Crowds of poor and hungry wait, Wan and wistful, to be fed With the friar of mercy's bread. Hark! that chime of heaven's far bells! On the monk's rapt ear it swells, No! fond, flattering dream, away! Mercy calls; no longer stay! Whom thou yearnest here to find In the musings of thy mind, God and Jesus, lo, they wait Knocking at thy convent gate! From his knees the monk arose; With full heart and hand he goes, At his gate the poor relieves, Gains a blessing and receives; To his cell returned, and there Found the angel of his prayer, Who with radiant features said, "Hadst thou stayed I must have fled." —Charles Timothy Brooks.

Somewhere I have read of an aged monk Who, kneeling one day in his cell, Beheld in a glorious vision the form Of the dear Lord Christ; and there fell Upon him a rapture, wondrously sweet, And his lips could frame no word, As he gazed on the form and noted the love That beamed from the face of his Lord. There came to his ears the sound of a bell Which called him early and late To carry loaves to the wretched poor Who lingered about the gate. Could he leave his cell now glorified By the presence of the Christ, The Blessed Son, the Holy One, His Saviour, the Sacrificed? He went to his act of mercy, and when He returned to his cell, the dim Gay light was dispelled as the loving Christ Re-entered to welcome him. And the Blessed One remained, more fair, More glorious than before, And the heart of the aged monk was glad, And his cell was dim no more. "Draw nigh and abide with me, O Christ, All through this day," is the prayer Which sounds from my heart, and my lips repeat Each morning, and Christ, the Fair, Seems very near as his words I hear, Though his form I do not see; "When you care for the least of these, dear child, You have done it unto me. "With loving service fill all this day, Do good in the name of your Lord, And I will be near, your heart to cheer, According to my word." —William Norris Burr.

It was only a blossom, Just the merest bit of bloom, But it brought a glimpse of summer To the little darkened room. It was only a glad "good morning," As she passed along the way; But it spread the morning's glory Over the livelong day. Only a song; but the music, Though simply pure and sweet, Brought back to better pathways The reckless roving feet. "Only," in our blind wisdom, How dare we say at all? Since the ages alone can tell us Which is the great or small.

Hark! the voice of Jesus calling, "Who will go and work to-day? Fields are white and harvests waiting, Who will bear the sheaves away?" Loud and long the Master calleth, Rich reward he offers free; Who will answer, gladly saying, "Here am I, send me, send me." If you cannot cross the ocean And the heathen lands explore, You can find the heathen nearer, You can help them at your door; If you cannot give your thousands You can give the widow's mite; And the least you give for Jesus Will be precious in his sight. If you cannot speak like angels, If you cannot preach like Paul, You can tell the love of Jesus, You can say he died for all. If you cannot rouse the wicked With the Judgment's dread alarms, You can lead the little children To the Saviour's waiting arms. Let none hear you idly saying "There is nothing I can do," While the sons of men are dying, And the Master calls for you. Take the task he gives you gladly, Let his work your pleasure be; Answer quickly, when he calleth, "Here am I, send me, send me." —Daniel March.

Sow thou thy seed! Glad is the light of Spring—the sun is glowing. Do thou thy deed: Who knows when flower or deed shall cease its growing?

Thy seed may be Bearer of thousands scattered far and near; Eternity May feel the impress of the deed done here.

—Arthur L. Salmon.

The toil of brain, or heart, or hand, Is man's appointed lot; He who God's call can understand Will work and murmur not. Toil is no thorny crown of pain, Bound round man's brow for sin; True souls, from it, all strength may gain, High manliness may win. O God! who workest hitherto, Working in all we see, Fain would we be, and bear, and do, As best it pleaseth thee. Where'er thou sendest we will go, Nor any questions ask, And that thou biddest we will do, Whatever be the task. Our skill of hand, and strength of limb, Are not our own, but thine; We link them to the work of Him Who made all life divine. Our brother-friend, thy holy Son, Shared all our lot and strife; And nobly will our work be done If molded by his life. —Thomas W. Freckelton.

No service in itself is small; None great, though earth it fill; But that is small that seeks its own, And great that seeks God's will. Then hold my hand, most gracious God, Guide all my goings still; And let it be my life's one aim, To know and do thy will.

It was only a sunny smile, And little it cost in the giving; But it scattered the night Like morning light, And made the day worth living. Through life's dull warp a woof it wove, In shining colors of light and love, And the angels smiled as they watched above, Yet little it cost in giving. It was only a kindly word, And a word that was lightly spoken; Yet not in vain, For it stilled the pain Of a heart that was nearly broken. It strengthened a fate beset by fears And groping blindly through mists of tears For light to brighten the coming years, Although it was lightly spoken. It was only a helping hand, And it seemed of little availing; But its clasps were warm, And it saved from harm A brother whose strength was failing. Its touch was tender as angels' wings, But it rolled the stone from the hidden springs, And pointed the way to higher things, Though it seemed of little availing. A smile, a word, a touch, And each is easily given; Yet one may win A soul from sin Or smooth the way to heaven. A smile may lighten a falling heart, A word may soften pain's keenest smart, A touch may lead us from sin apart— How easily each is given!

O matchless honor, all unsought, High privilege, surpassing thought That thou shouldst call us, Lord, to be Linked in work-fellowship with thee! To carry out thy wondrous plan, To bear thy messages to man; "In trust," with Christ's own word of grace To every soul of human race.

"Jesus saith," and His deep Saying who shall rightly understand, Rescued from the grasp of ages, risen from its grave of sand? Who shall read its mystic meaning, who explain its import high: "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Does it mean the stone-built altar, and the cleft-wood for its fire, That with sacrificial offering shall the soul to God aspire, Purged and pure from sin's defilement, lifting holy hands on high, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Does it mean that toil and action are the price that man shall pay, Striving the strait gait to enter, pressing on the narrow way, Clearing it from shade and hindrance, with strong arm and purpose high, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Does it mean that he who seeketh may Thy presence always see In the common things around him, in the stone and in the tree, Underlying, all-pervading, Soul of Nature, ever nigh, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Yea, in all our work and worship, in our quiet, in our strife, In the daily, busy handwork, in the soul's most ardent life, Each may read his own true meaning of the Saying deep and high, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I."

—Mrs. Henry B. Smith.

He's true to God, who's true to man; wherever wrong is done, To the humblest and the weakest, 'neath the all-beholding sun, That wrong is also done to us; and they are slaves most base Whose love of right is for themselves, and not for all their race.

—James Russell Lowell.

She stood before a chosen few, With modest air and eyes of blue; A gentle creature, in whose face Were mingled tenderness and grace. "You wish to join our fold," they said; "Do you believe in all that's read From ritual and written creed, Essential to our human need?" A troubled look was in her eyes; She answered, as in vague surprise, As though the sense to her were dim. "I only strive to follow Him." They knew her life, how oft she stood, Pure in her guileless maidenhood, By dying bed, in hovel lone, Whose sorrow she had made her own. Oft had her voice in prayer been heard, Sweet as the note of any bird; Her hand been open in distress; Her joy to brighten and to bless. Yet still she answered, when they sought To know her inmost, earnest thought, With look as of the seraphim "I only strive to follow Him." —Sarah Knowles Bolton.

Another day God gives me, pure and white. How can I make it holy in his sight? Small means have I and but a narrow sphere, Yet work is round me, for he placed me here. How can I serve thee, Lord? Open mine eyes; Show me the duty that around me lies. "The house is small, but human hearts are there, And for this day at least beneath thy care. Someone is sad—then speak a word of cheer; Someone is lonely—make him welcome here; Someone has failed—protect him from despair; Someone is poor—there's something you can spare! "Thine own heart's sorrow mention but in prayer, And carry sunshine with thee everywhere. The little duties do with all thine heart And from things sordid keep a mind apart; Then sleep, my child, and take a well-earned rest, In blessing others thou thyself art blest!"

Methought that in a solemn church I stood; Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet, Lay spread from door to door, from street to street. Midway the form hung high upon the rood Of Him who gave his life to be our good. Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet Among the candles, shining still and sweet. Men came and went, and worshipped as they could— And still their dust a woman with her broom, Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door. Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom, Across the church a silent figure come; "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor." "It is the Lord!" I cried, and saw no more. —George Macdonald.

Dig channels for the streams of love, Where they may broadly run, And love has overflowing streams To fill them every one. But if at any time thou cease Such channels to provide, The very founts of love to thee Will soon be parched and dried. For thou must share if thou wouldst keep That good thing from above; Ceasing to share you cease to have; Such is the law of love.

Only a seed—but it chanced to fall In a little cleft of a city wall, And taking root, grew bravely up Till a tiny blossom crowned its top. Only a thought—but the work it wrought Could never by tongue or pen be taught; For it ran through a life like a thread of gold, And the life bore fruit—a hundred fold. Only a word—but 'twas spoken in love, With a whispered prayer to the Lord above; And the angels in heaven rejoiced once more, For a new-born soul "entered in by the door."

Secure in his prophetic strength, The water peril o'er, The many-gifted man at length Stepped on the promised shore. He trod the shore; but not to rest, Nor wait till angels came; Lo! humblest pains the saint attest, The firebrands and the flame. But when he felt the viper's smart, Then instant aid was given. Christian, hence learn to do thy part, And leave the rest to Heaven. —John Henry Newman.

All service ranks the same with God; If now, as formerly He trod Paradise, His presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can work—God's puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first. Say not "a small event!" Why "small"? Costs it more pain that this, ye call A "great event," should come to pass Than that? Untwine me, from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in, or exceed. —Robert Browning.

What will it matter in a little while That for a day We met and gave a word, a touch, a smile, Upon the way? These trifles! Can they make or mar Human life? Are souls as lightly swayed as rushes are By love or strife? Yea, yea, a look the fainting heart may break, Or make it whole, And just one word, if said for love's sweet sake, May save a soul.

Get leave to work In this world—'tis the best you get at all; For God in cursing gives us better gifts Than men in benediction. God says, "Sweat For foreheads;" men say "crowns;" and so we are crowned— Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel Which snaps with a secret spring. Get work; get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Be useful where thou livest, that they may Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still; Kindness, good parts, great places, are the way To compass this. Find out men's wants and will, And meet them there. All worldly joys go less To the one joy of doing kindnesses. —George Herbert.

When He who, sad and weary, longing sore For love's sweet service sought the sisters' door, One saw the heavenly, one the human guest; But who shall say which loved the Master best? —John Greenleaf Whittier.

Oft, when the Word is on me to deliver, Opens the heaven, and the Lord is there. . . . . . . Then with a rush the intolerable craving Shivers throughout me like a trumpet call— Oh to save these! to perish for their saving, Die for their life, be offered for them all!

No man is born into the world whose work Is not born with him; there is always work, And tools to work withal, for those who will; And blessed are the horny hands of toil! —James Russell Lowell.

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, In whatso we share with another's need; Not what we give, but what we share, For the gift without the giver is bare; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three: Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me. —James Russell Lowell.

Look not beyond the stars for heaven, Nor 'neath the sea for hell; Know thou, who leads a useful life In Paradise doth dwell. —Hafiz, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature, scorn not one; The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. —William Wordsworth.

Mechanic soul, thou must not only do With Martha, but with Mary ponder too; Happy's the home where these fair sisters vary; But most, when Martha's reconciled to Mary. —Francis Quarles.

If thou hast the gift of strength, then know Thy part is to uplift the trodden low; Else, in the giant's grasp, until the end A hopeless wrestler shall thy soul contend. —George Meredith.

The best men doing their best Know, peradventure, least of what they do. Men usefullest i' the world are simply used. —Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

New words to speak, new thoughts to hear, New love to give and take; Perchance new burdens I may bear To-day for love's sweet sake.

He doth good work whose heart can find The spirit 'neath the letter; Who makes his kind of happier mind, Leaves wiser men and better.

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly, Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly, Labor—all labor is noble and holy. —Frances Sargent Osgood.

In silence mend what ills deform the mind; But all thy good impart to all thy kind. —John Sterling.

God gave me something very sweet to be mine own this day: A precious opportunity a word for Christ to say.

That best portion of a good man's life— His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. —William Wordsworth.

Wouldst thou go forth to bless, be sure of thine own ground, Fix well thy center first, then draw thy circle round.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.