VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS. 159 Through strife comes the conquest; when trials attend, And dangers and conflicts around thee increase; Never mind, never mind! when the struggle shall Comes the voice of rejoicing, the sweet tones of peace. Through toil comes repose: if at midsummer noon The heat has o'erpowered thee, and labour oppressed; Never mind, never mind! for the cool evening soon In the sweetness of slumber shall soothe thee to rest. Through the cross comes the crown; when the cares of this life, Like giants in strength, may to crush thee com-bine, Never mind, never mind! after sorrow's sad strife, Shall the peace and the crown of salvation be thine. Through woe comes delight: if at evening thou sigh, tears! 160 A CITY STREET. Through death comes our life: to the portal of pain, Through Time's thistle fields are our weary steps driven; Never mind, never mind! through this passage we gain The mansions of light, and the portals of heaven. A City Street. BY MARY HOWITT. I LOVE the fields, the woods, the streams, And yet I love no less than these, For haunts of man, where'er they be, I see within the city street, 161 A CITY STREET. The hearths by household virtues blest, I see the rich man, proudly fed For life's severest contrasts meet And lofty, princely palaces- Their arras chambers know! And even the portliest citizen Within his doors doth hide Some household grief, some secret care, From all the world beside; It ever was, it must be so, Hence is it that a city street For all its people, high and low, Coo Late. BY ABDY. Too late too late! How heavily that phrase Comes, like a knell, upon the shuddering ear, Telling of slighted duties, wasted days, Of privileges lost, of hopes once dear Now quenched in gloom and darkness. Words like these The worldling's callous heart must penetrate; All that he might have been in thought he sees, And sorrows o'er his present wreck—too late. Too late-too late! The prodigal, who strays Through the dim groves and winding bowers of sin; The cold and false deceiver, who betrays The trusting heart he fondly toiled to win; TOO LATE. The spendthrift, scattering his golden store, 163 Too late-too late! O dark and fatal ban, Too late too late! That direful sound portends Thou mayst have lost the confidence of friends, And opes for thee salvation's golden gate; Come, then, poor mourner, cast away thy fears; Believe, and enter-it is not too late! |