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 Brief life, and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. Speak after sentence? Yea: And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will.

THE HOUSEWIFE'S PRAYER

Lady, who with tender word Didst keep the house of Christ the Lord, Who didst set forth the bread and wine Before the Living Wheat and Vine, Reverently didst make the bed