SELECT POETRY.

Southland Times, Issue 647, 22 March 1867, Page 3

SELECT POETRY.

THE VICTORY OF LIFE. (By Theodobe Tiltoh*.) I once made search, in hope to find Abiding peace of mind. I toiled for riches — as if these Could bring the spirit ease ! I turned aside to books and lore, Still baffled as before. I tasted then of love and fame, But hungered still the same. I chose the sweetest paths I knew, Where only roses grew. Then fell a voice from out the skies, With message in this wise : ," Omy disciple ! is it meet That roses tempt thy feet ? " Thy Master, even for his head, Had" only thorns instead." Then drawn as by a heavenly grace, I left the flowery place, And walked on cutting flints and stones, I said with tears and groans : *■ O Lord! my feet, where Thou dost lead, Shall follow though they bleed !" ' As then I saw He chose my path For. discipline, not wrath, I walked in weakness, till at length I suffered unto strength. Nor ever were my trials done, But straightway new begun, For when I learnt to cast disdain Upon some special pain, He gave me sharper strokes to bear, And pierced me to despair ; Until, so sorely was I pressed, I broke beneath the test, f And fell within the Tempter's power, Yet in the evil hour, 'Bound hand and foot, I cried : " O Lord ! Break Thou the three-fold cord !" And while my soul was at her prayer, He snatched me from the snare. I then drew nigh the gate of death, Where struggling for my breat, I smote my coward knees in fear, Aghast to stand so n~ar ! " Yet while I shivered in the gloom, Down-gazing in the tomb, " 0 Lord I" I cried, " bear Thou my sin, And I will enter in !" But He by whom my soul was tried Not yet was satisfied, * For then he crushed me with a blow Of more than mortal woe j TiU bitter death had been relief To my more bitter grief. Yet bleeding*, panting in the dust, I knew His judgment just* And as a lark with broken wing Hath sometimes heart to sing, So I, all shattered, still could raise . To His dear name the praise I Henceforth I know a, holy prayer To conquer pain and care I )Tor when my struggling soul grows faintj And murmurs with complaint, TWy up-rit «*"*« Thy will be done ! Ans Hud,B $c victory TO