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soul

      Prove mightier than thy dreaming.

      The cup of water to the faint,

      Or rest unto the weary,

      The light thou giv'st another's life,

      Shall make thine own less dreary.

      And boundless realms of faith and love

      Will wait for thy possessing;

      Not creeds, but deeds, if thou wouldst win

      Unto thy soul a blessing."

      And so I wait with peaceful heart,

      Content to do His pleasure;

      Not caring if the world shall mock

      At smallness of the measure

      Of thoughts or deeds or daily life.

      He knows the true endeavor—

      To do His will, to seek His face—

      And He will fail me never.

      —Sarah A. Gibbs.

      ———

      THE ONE TALENT

      Hide not thy talent in the earth;

      However small it be,

      Its faithful use, its utmost worth,

      God will require of thee.

      The humblest service rendered here

      He will as truly own

      As Paul's in his exalted sphere,

      Or Gabriel's near the throne.

      The cup of water kindly given,

      The widow's cheerful mites,

      Are worthier in the eye of heaven

      Than pride's most costly rites.

      His own, which He hath lent on trust,

      He asks of thee again;

      Little or much, the claim is just,

      And thine excuses vain.

      Go, then, and strive to do thy part—

      Though humble it may be;

      The ready hand, the willing heart,

      Are all heaven asks of thee.

      —William Cutler.

      ———

      ONE TALENT

      (Matt. xxv. 18)

      In a napkin smooth and white,

      Hidden from all mortal sight,

      My one talent lies to-night.

      Mine to hoard, or mine to use;

      Mine to keep, or mine to lose;

      May I not do what I choose?

      Ah! the gift was only lent

      With the Giver's known intent

      That it should be wisely spent.

      And I know he will demand

      Every farthing at my hand,

      When I in his presence stand.

      What will be my grief and shame

      When I hear my humble name

      And cannot repay his claim!

      One poor talent—nothing more!

      All the years that have gone o'er

      Have not added to the store.

      Some will double what they hold,

      Others add to it tenfold

      And pay back the shining gold.

      Would that I had toiled like them!

      All my sloth I now condemn;

      Guilty fears my soul o'erwhelm.

      Lord, oh teach me what to do.

      Make me faithful, make me true,

      And the sacred trust renew.

      Help me, ere too late it be,

      Something yet to do for Thee,

      Thou who hast done all for me.

      ———

      Art thou little? Do thy little well;

      And for thy comfort know

      Great men can do their greatest work

      No better than just so.

      —Johann W. von Goethe.

      

      ———

      RESPONSIBILITY FOR TALENTS

      Thou that in life's crowded city art arrived, thou knowest not how—

      By what path or on what errand—list and learn thine errand now.

      From the palace to the city on the business of thy King

      Thou wert sent at early morning, to return at evening.

      Dreamer, waken; loiterer, hasten; what thy task is understand:

      Thou art here to purchase substance, and the price is in thine hand.

      Has the tumult of the market all thy sense confused and drowned?

      Do its glittering wares entice thee, or its shouts and cries confound?

      Oh, beware lest thy Lord's business be forgotten, while thy gaze

      Is on every show and pageant which the giddy square displays.

      Barter not his gold for pebbles; do not trade in vanities;

      Pearls there are of price and jewels for the purchase of the wise.

      And know this—at thy returning thou wilt surely find the King

      With an open book before Him, waiting to make reckoning.

      Thus large honors will the faithful, earnest service of one day

      Reap of Him; but one day's folly largest penalties will pay.

      —Richard Chenevix Trench.

      ———

      Not once or twice in our fair island-story

      The path of duty was the way to glory.

      He, that ever following her commands,

      On with toil of heart and knees and hands,

      Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won

      His path upward, and prevailed,

      Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled

      Are close upon the shining table-lands

      To which our God himself is moon and sun.

      —Alfred Tennyson.

      ———

      GO RIGHT ON WORKING

      Ah, yes! the task is hard, 'tis true,

      But what's the use of sighing?

      They're soonest with their duties through

      Who bravely keep on trying.

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