ANGEL.

FROM "PARADISE LOST," BOOK V.

The seraph Abdiel, faithful found
Among the faithless, faithful only he;
Among innumerable false, unmoved,
Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;
Nor number, nor example with him wrought
To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind,
Though single. From amidst them forth he passed,
Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained
Superior, nor of violence feared aught;
And with retorted scorn his back he turned
On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.

MILTON.

* * * * *

LOW SPIRITS.

Fever and fret and aimless stir
And disappointed strife,
All chafing, unsuccessful things,
Make up the sum of life.

Love adds anxiety to toil,
And sameness doubles cares.
While one unbroken chain of work
The flagging temper wears.

The light and air are dulled with smoke:
The streets resound with noise;
And the soul sinks to see its peers
Chasing their joyless joys.

Voices are round me; smiles are near;
Kind welcomes to be had;
And yet my spirit is alone,
Fretful, outworn, and sad.

A weary actor, I would fain
Be quit of my long part;
The burden of unquiet life
Lies heavy on my heart.

Sweet thought of God! now do thy work
As thou hast done before;
Wake up, and tears will wake with thee,
And the dull mood be o'er.

The very thinking of the thought
Without or praise or prayer,
Gives light to know, and life to do,
And marvellous strength to bear.

Oh, there is music in that thought,
Unto a heart unstrung,
Like sweet bells at the evening time,
Most musically rung.

'Tis not his justice or his power,
Beauty or blest abode,
But the mere unexpanded thought
Of the eternal God.

It is not of his wondrous works,
Not even that he is;
Words fail it, but it is a thought
Which by itself is bliss.

Sweet thought, lie closer to my heart!
That I may feel thee near,
As one who for his weapon feels
In some nocturnal fear.

Mostly in hours of gloom thou com'st,
When sadness makes us lowly,
As though thou wert the echo sweet
Of humble melancholy.

I bless thee. Lord, for this kind check
To spirits over free!
More helpless need of thee!
And for all things that make me feel

FREDERICK WILLIAM F