Heaving a sigh and then another sigh,
Mulan was sitting weaving at her door
And could not hear the noise of loom and shuttle,
but only the sound of the girl lamenting
O lady, are you thinking of your love?
O lady, are you brooding on your love? "
Indeed, I have no love at all to think of,
Indeed I have no love at all to brood on
But then last night I heard the battle-roll,
The Khan is calling up a mighty levy.
The battle-roll was written in twelve scrolls,
And every scroll carried my father's name.
My father has no grown-up son at all,

Open, Lord, my inward ear,
And bid my heart rejoice;
Bid my quiet spirit hear
The comfort of thy voice:
Never in the whirlwind found,
Or where earthquakes rock the place, —
Still and silent is the sound,
The whisper, of thy grace.

From the world of sin and noise
And hurry I withdraw;
For the small and inward voice
I wait with humble awe:
Silent am I now and still,
Would not in thy presence move:
To my waiting soul reveal
The secret of thy love!

Then they heard the tent-poles clatter,
And the fly in twain was torn —
'Twas the soiled rag of a tatter
Of the tent where I was born.
Does it matter? Which is stranger —
Brick or stone or calico?
There was One born in a manger
Nineteen hundred years ago.
And my beds were camp beds and tramp beds and damp beds,
And my beds were dry beds on drought-stricken ground,
Hard beds and soft beds, and wide beds and narrow —

God is in his holy temple!
Thoughts of earth, be silent now,
While with reverence we assemble,
And before his presence bow:
He is with us now and ever,
When we call upon his name,
Aiding every good endeavor,
Guiding every upward aim.

God is in his holy temple
In the pure and holy mind,
In the reverent heart and simple,
In the soul from sense refined:
Then let every low emotion
Banished far and silent be,
And our souls, in pure devotion,
Lord, be temples worthy thee!

Help me, my God, to speak
True words to thee this day;
Real let my voice be when I praise
And trustful when I pray.

Thy words are true to me;
Let mine to thee be true, —
The speech of my whole heart and soul,
However low and few.

True words of grief for sin,
Of longing to be free,
Of striving for deliverance
And likeness, Lord, to thee.

True words of faith and hope,
Of godly joy and grief:
Lord, I believe, — O hear my cry,
Help thou mine unbelief!

They can't hear in West o' London, where the worst dine with the best —
Deaf to all save lies and laughter, they can't hear in London West —
Tailored brutes and splendid harlots, and the parasites that be —
They can't hear the warning thunder of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Misery —
Beating from the hearts of men — the Drums of Battersea.

Where the hearses hurry ever, and where man lives like a beast,
They can feel the war-drums beating — men of Hell! and London East.

Choyse the foundation is, whereon elect,
Heavens chuse to build, as Sura Hart Select.
Arts there will flourish, learning will increase,
Religion fructifie, and blossom peace,
Live then most happy Prince, thy Hart select
Ever will beare a glorious Architect;
Sciences here, both morall and divine,

Structure may have, making the building fine,
The Arts will greatly your great soul adorn,
Vertue will highly elevate your horne,
And like great Charles, fit you for peace, or Warre,
Revealing good to choose, the Ill to barre.

The Gossips tell a story of the Sparrow and the Cat,
The Feline thin and hungry and the Bird exceeding fat.
With eager, famished energy and claws of gripping steel,
Puss pounced upon the Sparrow and prepared to make a meal.

The Sparrow never struggled when he found that he was caught
(If somewhat slow in action he was mighty quick of thought),
But chirped in simple dignity that seemed to fit the case,
— No Gentleman would ever eat before he'd washed his face! —

This hint about his Manners wounded Thomas like a knife

Rose of my heart! I've raised for thee a bower,
For thee have bent the pliant osier round,
For thee have carpeted with turf the ground,
And trained a canopy to shield thy flower,
So that the warmest sun can have no power
To dry the dew from off thy leaf, and pale
Thy living carmine, but a woven veil
Of full-green vines shall guard from heat and shower.
Rose of my heart! here, in this dim alcove,
No worm shall nestle, and no wandering bee
Shall suck thy sweets, no blight shall wither thee,
But thou shalt show the freshest hue of love.

In this peaceful house of prayer
Stronger faith, O God, we seek;
Here we bring each earthly care,—
Thou the strengthening message speak!

In our greatest trials we,
Calm through thee, the way have trod;
In the smallest, may we feel
Thou art still our Helper-God.

Of thy presence and thy love
We more steadfast feeling need,
Till the high and holy thought
Hallow every simplest deed.

In this quiet hour of prayer
Stronger faith, O God, we seek;
Here we lay each earthly care,—
Thou the strengthening message speak!