English

Begin the day with God;
Kneel down to Him in prayer;
Lift up thy heart to His abode
And seek His love to share.

Open the Book of God,
And read a portion there;
That it may hallow all thy thoughts
And sweeten all thy care.

Go through the day with God,
Whate'er thy work may be.
Where'er thou art—at home, abroad,
He still is near to thee.

Converse in mind with God;
Thy spirit heavenward raise;
Acknowledge every good bestowed,
And offer grateful praise.

. . . . . . . .
 . . . . . . . .
. . . . beggar,’ he sayes,
 ‘W i th none such fellows as thee.’

‘I am not in iest,’ said Litle Iohn,
 ‘I sweare all by the roode;
Change w i th mee,’ said Little Iohn,
 ‘And I will giue thee some boote.’

But he has gotten on this old mans gowne,
 It reacht not to his wrist;
‘Christ's curse on 's hart,’ said Litle Iohn,
 ‘That thinkes my gowne amisse.’

But he has gotten on this old mans shoes,
 Are clouted nine fold about;
‘Beshrew his hart,’ says Litle Iohn,

Before your mouth was fringed with hair,
All pricks might find a haven there,
Till hangmen loathed a boy so common,
And deadcart men preferred a woman.
When gamahuche no longer paid,
Your tongue was still your stock in trade,
No more to suck, but to discharge
Its venom on mankind at large;
On characters base slurs to fix,
As once it had polluted pricks.
Oh filthy tongue, you'd better far
Be what you were than what you are.

olivia: Before we shall again behold
In his diurnal race the world's great eye,
We may as silent be and cold
As are the shades where buried lovers lie.

endimion: Olivia, 'tis no fault of love
To lose ourselves in death, but O, I fear
When life and knowledge is above
Restored to us, I shall not know thee there.

olivia: Call it not Heaven, my love, where we
Ourselves shall see, and yet each other miss:
So much of Heaven I find in thee
As, thou unknown, all else privation is.

On the Eastern Way at the city of Lo-yang
At the edge of the road peach-trees and plum-trees grow;
On the two sides, — flower matched by flower;
Across the road, — leaf touching leaf.

A spring wind rises from the north-east;
Flowers and leaves gently nod and sway.
Up the road somebody's daughter comes
Carrying a basket, to gather silkworm's food.
With her slender hand she breaks a branch from the tree;
The flowers fall, tossed and scattered in the wind.

The tree says:

" Lovely lady, I never did you harm;

Before the bright sun rises over the hill,
In the cornfield poor Mary is seen,
Impatient her little blue apron to fill,
With the few scattered ears she can glean.

She never leaves off, or runs out of her place,
To play, or to idle and chat;
Except now and then, just to wipe her hot face,
And fan herself with her broad hat.

‘Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun,
How tired and hot you must be;
Why don't you leave off, as the others have done,
And sit with them under the tree?’

There was a lady fair,
An een a lady of birth an fame,
She eyed her father's kitchen-boy,
The greater was her shame.

She could never her love reveal,
Nor to him talk,
But in the forest wide an brade,
Where they were wont to walk.

It fell ance upon a day
Her father gaed frae home,
And she sent for the kitchen-boy
To her own room.

" Canna ye fancy me, Willie?
Canna ye fancy me?
By a' the lords I ever saw
There is nane I loo but ye."

" O latna this be kent, lady,

Before Him weltered like a shoreless sea
The souls of them that had not sought to be,
With all their guilt upon them, and they cried,
They that had sinned from hate and lust and pride,
" Thou that didst make us what we might become,
Judge us! " The Judge of all the earth was dumb;
But high above them, in His sovereign place,
He lifted up the pity of His face.

Before Him weltered like a shoreless sea
The souls of them that had not sought to be,
With all their guilt upon them, and they cried,

Before He formed a star
Our God arranged our lot;
Our little lives were planned afar,
When we as yet were not.

Time hath no aimless strands,
God's warp and woof combines;
Life's loom is in His holy hands,
His shuttles know their lines.

He purposed all He sends,
He knows what us awaits;
He marketh now the distant ends
Of paths to hidden gates.

All acts His eyes foresee
And never choice constrain;
So willeth He that we are free
His grace to lose or gain.

Before God's footstool to confess
A poor soul knelt, and bowed his head;
“I failed,” he cried. The Master said,
“Thou didst thy best—that is success!”

Before God's footstool to confess
A poor soul knelt, and bowed his head;
“I failed,” he cried. The Master said,
“Thou didst thy best—that is success!”