dying;
So let my name lie, unblazoned, unknown;
Unpraised and unmissed, I shall still be remembered;
Yes, but remembered for what I have done.

--Horatius Bonar.

SELF

O I could go through all life's troubles singing,
Turning earth's night to day,
If self were not so fast around me clinging,
To all I do or say.

O Lord! that I could waste my life for others,
With no ends of my own,
That I could pour myself into my brothers
And live for them alone!

Such was the life thou livedst; self-abjuring,
Thine own pains never easing,
Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring;
A life without self-pleasing.

--Frederick William Faber.

BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH US

The time for toil is past, and night has come--
The last and saddest of the harvest eves;
Worn out with labor, long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.

Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;
Master, behold my sheaves.

Few, light, and worthless--yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late--
Yet these are all my sheaves.

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently and repeat,
"Master, behold my sheaves!"

I know these blossoms clustering heavily,
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value or utility--
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.

So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do,
And though the full ripe ears be sadly few
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.

--Elizabeth Akers.

I pray not that
Men tremble at
My power of place,
And lordly sway;
I only pray for simple grace
To look my neighbor in the face
Full honestly from day to day.

--James Whitcomb Riley.

If thou art blest,
Then let the sunshine of thy gladness rest