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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 !
Soon drops each blossom of the darkening wild,
Soon melts each meteor which thy steps beguiled,
Soon is the cistern dry which thou hast hewni,
And thou wilt weep in bitterness full soon.
Return! ere gathering night shall shroud the way
Thy footsteps yet may tread in the accepted day.


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.
Is not My joy to see thee safe and blest ?
Return ! I wait to hear once more thy voice,
To welcome thee anew, and bid thy heart rejoice.


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!
Fear not to meet thy beckoning Saviour's view ;
Long ere I called thee by thy name, I knew
That very treacherously thou wouldst deal ;
Now have I seen thy ways, yet I will heal.
Return! Wilt thou yet linger far from Me?
My wrath is turned away, I have redeemed thee.


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
To set their seal on memory's strange consistence
Of these, some worthless, some a life-regret,

That we would fain forget;
And very few are rich and great and sweet;

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,
From dissonance to pure and full accord!

“My thoughts are not as your thoughts, saith the

Nor are your ways as My ways. As the height
Of heaven above the earth, so are My ways,
My thoughts to yours ;-out of your sight,

Above your praise.”

O oracle most grand !
Thus teaching by sublimest negative
What by a positive we could not understand,

Or understanding, live!
And now, search fearlessly
The imperfections and obscurity,

The weakness and impurity,
Of all our thoughts. On each discovery
Write “ Not as ours!” Then in every line

Behold God's glory shine
In humbling yet sweet contrast, as we view
His thoughts, Eternal, Strong, and Holy, Infinite, and


They say there is a hollow, safe and still,

A point of coolness and repose
Within the centre of a fame, where life might dwell
Unharmed and unconsumed, as in a luminous shell ;

Which the bright walls of fire inclose
In breathless splendor barriers that no foes

Could pass at will.
There is a point of rest
At the great centre of the cyclone's force,

A silence at its secret source ;-
A little child might slumber undistressed,

Without the ruffle of one fairy curl,
In that strange central calm amid the mighty whirl.

So, in the centre of these thoughts of God,
Cyclones of power, consuming glory-fire-

As we fall overawed
Upon our faces, and are lifted higher
By His great gentleness, and carried nigher
Than unredeemed angels, till we stand

Even in the hollow of His hand-
Nay, more! we lean upon His breast-

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