. "Blasts" from The Ram's Horn. vin. I thought of Pauls afflictions, Jane, His trials not a few,The persecutions he endured, And gloried in them fight with beasts at Ephesus;— All this came to me now,And fortified me, Jane, to deal With that confounded cow. may appear incredible, But I declare to you,A peace thats indescribable, Such as I never my soul and I arose, An absolutely freeAnd happy man, calm as a clock, And shouted—victory. X. Let patience have her perfect work, The good book teaches, Jane,And its by tests and trials we, This excellence attain;In all of
. "Blasts" from The Ram's Horn. vin. I thought of Pauls afflictions, Jane, His trials not a few,The persecutions he endured, And gloried in them fight with beasts at Ephesus;— All this came to me now,And fortified me, Jane, to deal With that confounded cow. may appear incredible, But I declare to you,A peace thats indescribable, Such as I never my soul and I arose, An absolutely freeAnd happy man, calm as a clock, And shouted—victory. X. Let patience have her perfect work, The good book teaches, Jane,And its by tests and trials we, This excellence attain;In all of lifes vicissitudes, I seek Gods hand to trace,And he can make that cow a means Of sanctifying grace. 146 Blasts From The Rams Horn. Come, from the cedar-heights, the towers Of glorious Lebanon!Till lilies lift their languid cheeks All amorous of the sun. Thy breath of balm, O Spirit sweet! Brings summer to my soul;Then like a bird my bosom sings When love hath made me whole. Blow, mountain freshness! downward blow Where spirits languishd lie;Wind of the South, O softly breathe, Till brumal shadows fly! BREATHE, O WIND Arthur John Lockhart[pastor felix.] REATHE, mountain wind—thou breath of G The plain is hot below;The petals of the fainting rose Fall like a scented snow. Breathe, wind of God—thou South wind blow! The frost is falln amain;Breathe quickly! or our flowering hopes By the keen North are slain! Then, as the spicy odors flow From every bloom abroad,Oer desert fields my life shall go, Warm-sweetend by my God. As, like the roe oer hills of balmOur souls shall homeward move, Still let the bounding pulse be joy,Our life, perpetual love. SEEDS THAT JM GOOD habit is a true —JB No man with a wrong
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