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HAVERGAL, FRANCES RIDLEY, an English poet and religious writer, born at Astley, Worcestershire, December 14, 1836; died at Swansea, Wales, June 3, 1879. She was the daughter of William Henry Havergal, an English clergy man and musician, the author of a Psalmody, from whom she inherited a fine talent for music. She was the author of many religious and devotional poems, published at various times under the titles of Bells across the Snow, Compensation and other Devotional Poems, Loyal Responses, Songs for the Master, Alpine Poems, etc. She also published several volumes of prose, principally for young people. Since her death her poems have all been collected and published in two volumes, and the story of her life has been told by her sister, Margaret V. Havergal, in Memorials of Frances Ridley Havergal.
O wanderer from my side !
O erring, yet beloved ! I wait to bind thy bleeding feet, for keen Ind rankling are the thorns where thou hast been ;
I wait to give thee pardon, love and rest.
O fallen, yet not lost! Canst thou forget the life for thee laid down, The taunts, the scourging, and the thorny crown? When o'er thee first My spotless robe I spread, And poured the oil of joy upon thy head, How did thy weakening heart within thee burn, Canst thou remember all, and wilt thou not return ?
O chosen of my love!
THE THOUGHTS OF GOD.
What know we of God's thoughts? One word of gold
A volume doth enfold.
They are—“not ours !” Ours ? what are they? their value and their powers ? So evanescent, that while thousands fleet
Across thy busy brain,
Only a few remain
That we would fain forget;
And fewer still are lasting gain,
And these most often born of pain, Or sprung from strong concussion into strong exist
Now turn we from the darkness to the light,
“My thoughts are not as your thoughts, saith the
Above your praise.”
O oracle most grand !
Or understanding, live!
The weakness and impurity,
Behold God's glory shine
They say there is a hollow, safe and still,
A point of coolness and repose
Which the bright walls of fire inclose
Could pass at will.
A silence at its secret source ;-
Without the ruffle of one fairy curl,
So, in the centre of these thoughts of God,
As we fall overawed
Even in the hollow of His hand-