I

Thou, Lord, alone art all thy children need,
And there is none beside;

From thee the streams of blessedness proceed;
In thee the blest abide.

Fountain of life, and all-abounding grace,

Our source, our centre, and our dwelling-place!

MADAME GUYON.

"Whither Shall I Go?"

CANNOT find thee! still on restless pinion

My spirit beats the void where thou dost dwell;
I wander lost through all thy vast dominion,
And shrink beneath thy light ineffable.

I cannot know thee! even when most adoring
Before thy shrine I bend in lowliest prayer;
Beyond these bounds of thought, my thought upsoar-
ing,

From further quest comes back; thou art not there.

Yet high above the limits of my seeing

And folded far within the inmost heart,
And deep below the deeps of conscience being,
Thy splendor shineth; there, O God, thou art.

I cannot lose thee; still in thee abiding

The end is clear, How wide so'er I roam; The law that holds the worlds my steps is guiding. And I must rest at last in thee, my home.

ELIZA SCUDDER.

Creation's Psalm

A DEEP-BASSED thunder-rolling psalm

Sweeps thro' the reeded throat of Time,
And charms the ear of every clime
With music of the great "I Am."

It drags the planets in their orbs,

And smites the sun, and shakes the stars,
And strikes the rocky-bedded bars,
And beats about the aerial curbs!

Creation chants the nameless Name,

The winging worlds in chorus ring;
The great lands shout; the huge seas sing;
The thundering heavens roar, "I Am!"

SWITHIN SAINT SWITHAINE.

Making of Man

AL-MUZAWWIR! the "Fashioner!" say thus;

Still lauding Him who hath compounded us: When the Lord would fashion men,

Spake He in the Angels' hearing,

"Lo! Our will is there shall be

On the earth a creature bearing

Rule and royalty. Today
We will shape a man from clay."

Spake the Angels, "Wilt Thou make

Man who must forget his Maker, Working evil, shedding blood,

Of Thy precepts the forsaker? But Thou knowest all, and we Celebrate Thy majesty."

Answered Allah, "Yea! I know
What ye know not of this making;
Gabriel! Michael! Israfel!

Go down to the earth, and taking
Seven clods of colors seven,

Bring them unto Me in Heaven.

Then those holy Angels three,

Spread their pinions and descended; Seeking clods of diverse clay,

That all colors might be blended; Yellow, tawny, dun, black, brown, White and red as men are known.

But the earth spake sore afraid,
"Angels! of my substance take not,
Give me back my dust and pray
That the dread Creator make not
Man, for he will sin and bring
Wrath on me and suffering.

Therefore, empty-handed came
Gabriel, Michael, Israfel,
Saying, "Lord! Thy earth imploreth
Man may never on her dwell;
He will sin and anger Thee,
Give me back my clay!" cried she.

Spake the Lord to Azrael,

"Go thou, who of wing art surest,

Tell my earth this shall be well;

Bring those clods, which thou procurest

From her bosom, unto Me;

Shape them as I order thee."

Thus 'tis written how the Lord
Fashioned Adam for His glory,
Whom the Angels worshipped,

All save Iblis; and this story
Teacheth wherefore Azrael saith
"Come thou!" at man's hour of death.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

Adam and Eve

(From "Paradise Lost")

TWO of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

Godlike erect, with native honor clad,

In naked majesty seemed lords of all:
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine.
The image of their glorious Maker shone.
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed),
Whence true authority in men; though both
Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed;
For contemplation he and valor formed;
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him.

Adam to Eve

JOHN MILTON.

(From "Paradise Lost")

FAIREST of creation, last and best

Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed

Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet.

Eve

FOR the first time a lovely scene

Earth saw and smiled,

A gentle form with pallid mien
Bending o'er a new-born child;

JOHN MILTON.

The pang, the anguish, and the woe

That speech hath never told,

Fled, as the sun with noontide glow

Dissolves the snow-wreath cold,

Leaving the bliss that none but mothers know;
While he, the partner of her heaven-taught joy
Knelt in adoring praise beside his beauteous boy.
She, first of all our mortal race,

Learn'd the ecstasy to trace

The expanding form of infant grace
From her own life-spring fed;

To mark each radiant hour,

Heaven's sculpture still more perfect growing,
More full of power;

The little foot's elastic tread,

The rounded cheek, like rose-bud glowing,
The fringed eye with gladness flowing
As the pure, blue fountains roll;

And then those lisping sounds to hear,
Unfolding to her thrilling ear

The strange, mysterious, never-dying soul,
And with delight intense

To watch the angel-smile of sleeping innocence.

No more she mourned lost Eden's joy,

Or wept her cherish'd flowers,

In their primeval bowers

By wrecking tempests riven;

The thorn and thistle of the exile's lot

She heeded not.

So all-absorbing was her sweet employ

To rear the incipient man, the gift her God had given.

And when his boyhood bold

A richer beauty caught,

Her kindling glance of pleasure told

The incense of her idol-thought;

Not for the born of clay

Is pride's exulting thrill,

Dark herald of the downward way,

And ominous of ill.

Even his cradled brother's smile

The haughty first-born jealously survey'd

And envy marked the brow with hate and guile,
In God's own image made.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.