The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

Amid the broken waters of our ever-restless thought,
Oh be my verse an answering gleam from higher radiance caught;
That where through dark o'erarching boughs of sorrow, doubt, and sin,
The glorious Star of Bethlehem upon the flood looks in,
Its tiny trembling ray may bid some downcast vision turn
To that enkindling Light, for which all earthly shadows yearn.
Oh be my verse a hidden stream, which silently may flow
Where drooping leaf and thirsty flower in lonely valleys grow;
And often by its shady course to pilgrim hearts be brought
The quiet and refreshment of an upward-pointing thought;
Till, blending with the broad bright stream of sanctified endeavour,
God's glory be its ocean home, the end it seeketh ever.

The Ministry of Song.

In God's great field of labour
All work is not the same;
He hath a service for each one
Who loves His holy name.
And you, to whom the secrets
Of all sweet sounds are known,
Rise up! for He hath called you
To a mission of your own.
And, rightly to fulfil it,
His grace can make you strong,
Who to your charge hath given
The Ministry of Song.

Sing to the little children,
And they will listen well;
Sing grand and holy music,
For they can feel its spell.
Tell them the tale of Jephthah;
Then sing them what he said,—
‘Deeper and deeper still,’ and watch
How the little cheek grows red,
And the little breath comes quicker:
They will ne'er forget the tale,
Which the song has fastened surely,
As with a golden nail.

I remember, late one evening,
How the music stopped, for, hark!
Charlie's nursery door was open,
He was calling in the dark,—

‘Oh no! I am not frightened,
And I do not want a light;
But I cannot sleep for thinking
Of the song you sang last night.
Something about a “valley,”
And “make rough places plain,”
And “Comfort ye;” so beautiful!
Oh, sing it me again!’

Sing at the cottage bedside;
They have no music there,
And the voice of praise is silent
After the voice of prayer.
Sing of the gentle Saviour
In the simplest hymns you know,
And the pain-dimmed eye will brighten
As the soothing verses flow.
Better than loudest plaudits
The murmured thanks of such,
For the King will stoop to crown them
With His gracious ‘Inasmuch.’

Sing, where the full-toned organ
Resounds through aisle and nave,
And the choral praise ascendeth
In concord sweet and grave.
Sing, where the village voices
Fall harshly on your ear;
And, while more earnestly you join,
Less discord you will hear.
The noblest and the humblest
Alike are ‘common praise,’

And not for human ear alone
The psalm and hymn we raise.

Sing in the deepening twilight,
When the shadow of eve is nigh,
And her purple and golden pinions
Fold o'er the western sky.
Sing in the silver silence,
While the first moonbeams fall;
So shall your power be greater
Over the hearts of all.
Sing till you bear them with you
Into a holy calm,
And the sacred tones have scattered
Manna, and myrrh, and balm.

Sing! that your song may gladden;
Sing like the happy rills,
Leaping in sparkling blessing
Fresh from the breezy hills.
Sing! that your song may silence
The folly and the jest,
And the ‘idle word’ be banished
As an unwelcome guest.
Sing! that your song may echo
After the strain is past,
A link of the love-wrought cable
That holds some vessel fast.

Sing to the tired and anxious
It is yours to fling a ray,

Passing indeed, but cheering,
Across the rugged way.
Sing to God's holy servants,
Weary with loving toil,
Spent with their faithful labour
On oft ungrateful soil.
The chalice of your music
All reverently bear,
For with the blessèd angels
Such ministry you share.

When you long to bear the Message
Home to some troubled breast,
Then sing with loving fervour,
‘Come unto Him, and rest.’
Or would you whisper comfort,
Where words bring no relief,
Sing how ‘He was despisèd,
Acquainted with our grief.’
And, aided by His blessing,
The song may win its way
Where speech had no admittance,
And change the night to day.

Sing, when His mighty mercies
And marvellous love you feel,
And the deep joy of gratitude
Springs freshly as you kneel;
When words, like morning starlight,
Melt powerless,—rise and sing!
And bring your sweetest music
To Him, your gracious King.

Pour out your song before Him
To whom our best is due;
Remember, He who hears your prayer
Will hear your praises too.

Sing on in grateful gladness!
Rejoice in this good thing
Which the Lord thy God hath given thee,
The happy power to sing.
But yield to Him, the Sovereign,
To whom all gifts belong,
In fullest consecration,
Your Ministry of Song,
Until His mercy grant you
That resurrection voice,
Whose only ministry shall be,
To praise Him and rejoice.

Our Hidden Leaves.

Oh the hidden leaves of Life!
Closely folded in the heart;
Leaves where Memory's golden finger,
Slowly pointing, loves to linger;
Leaves that bid the old tears start.

Leaves where Hope would read the future,
Sibylline, and charged with fate:
Leaves which calm Submission closeth,
While her tearless eye reposeth
On the legend, ‘Trust, and wait!’

Leaves which grave Experience ponders,
Soundings for her pilot-charts;
Leaves which God Himself is storing,
Records which we read, adoring
Him who writes on human hearts.

All our own, our treasured secrets,
Indestructible archives!
None can copy, none can steal them,
Death itself shall not reveal them,
Sacred manuscripts of lives.

Some are filled with fairy pictures,
Half imagined and half seen;
Radiant faces, fretted towers,
Sunset colours, starry flowers,
Wondrous arabesques between.

Some are traced with liquid sunbeams,
Some with fire, and some with tears;
Some with crimson dyes are glowing,
From a smitten life-rock flowing
Through the wilderness of years.

Some are crossed with later writing,
Palimpsests of earliest days;
Old remembrance faintly gleaming
Through the thinking and the dreaming
Outlines dim in noontide haze.

One lies open, all unwritten,
To the glance of careless sight;

Yet it bears a shining story,
Traced in phosphorescent glory,
Only legible by night.

One is dark with hieroglyphics
Of some dynasty of grief:
Only God, and just one other,
Dearest friend, or truest brother,
Ever read that hidden leaf.

Many a leaf is undeciphered,
Writ in languages unknown;
O'er the strange inscription bending,
(Every clue in darkness ending,)
Finding no ‘Rosetta Stone,’

Still we study, always failing!
God can read it, we must wait;
Wait, until He teach the mystery,
Then the wisdom-woven history
Faith shall read, and Love translate.

Leaflets now unpaged and scattered
Time's great library receives;
When eternity shall bind them,
Golden volumes we shall find them,
God's light falling on the leaves.

Threefold Praise.

Haydn—Mendelssohn—Handel.

‘We bless Thee for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but above all, for Thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ.’

I. PART I. Haydn's ‘Creation.’

‘We bless Thee for our creation.’

What is the first and simplest praise,
The universal debt,
Which yet the thoughtless heart of man
So quickly may forget?
‘We bless Thee for creation!’
So taught the noble band
Who left a sound and holy form,
For ages yet to stand,
Rich legacy of praise and prayer,
Laid up through ages past,
Strong witness for the truth of God:
Oh, may we hold it fast!

‘We bless Thee for creation!’
So are we blithely taught
By Haydn's joyous spirit;
Such was the praise he brought.
A praise all morning sunshine,
And sparklets of the spring,
O'er which the long life-shadows
No chastening softness fling.

A praise of early freshness,
Of carol and of trill,
Re-echoing all the music
Of valley and of rill.
A praise that we are sharing
With every singing breeze,
With nightingales and linnets,
With waterfalls and trees;
With anthems of the flowers
Too delicate and sweet
For all their fairy minstrelsy
Our mortal ears to greet.

A mighty song of blessing
Archangels too uplift,
For their own bright existence,
A grand and glorious gift.
But such their full life-chalice,
So sparkling and so pure,
And such their vivid sense of joy,
Sweet, solid, and secure,
We cannot write the harmonies
To such a song of bliss,
We only catch the melody,
And sing, content with this.

We are but little children,
And earth a broken toy;
We do not know the treasures
In our Father's house of joy.
Thanksgivings for creation
We ignorantly raise;

We know not yet the thousandth part
Of that for which we praise.

Yet, praise Him for creation!
Nor cease the happy song,
But this our Hallelujah
Through all our life prolong;
'T will mingle with the chorus
Before the heavenly throne,
Where what it truly is to be
Shall first be fully known.

II. PART II. Mendelssohn's ‘Elijah.’

‘. . . preservation, and all the blessings of this life.’

O Felix! happy in thy varied store
Of harmonies undreamt before,
How different was the gift
Of praise 'twas thine to pour,
Whether in stately calm, or tempest strong and swift!

Mark the day,
In mourning robe of grey,
Of shrouded mountain and of storm-swept vale,
And purple pall spread o'er the distance pale,
While thunderous masses wildly drift
In lurid gloom and grandeur: then a swift
And dazzling ray bursts through a sudden rift;
The dark waves glitter as the storms subside,
And all is light and glory at the eventide.

O sunlight of thanksgiving! Who that knows
Its bright forth-breaking after dreariest days,
Would change the after-thought of woes
For memory's loveliest light that glows,
If so he must forego one note of that sweet praise?

For not the song
Which knows no minor cadence, sad and long;
And not the tide
Whose emerald and silver pride
Was never dashed in wild and writhing fray,
Where grim and giant rocks hurl back the spray;
And not the crystal atmosphere,
That carves each outline sharp and clear
Upon a sapphire sky: not these, not these,
Nor aught existing but to charm and please,
Without acknowledging life's mystery,
And all the mighty reign
Of yearning and of pain
That fills its half-read history,
Fit music can supply
To lift the wandering heart on high
To that Preserving Love, which rules all change,
And gives ‘all blessings of this life,’ so dream-like and so strange.

And his was praise
Deeper and truer, such as those may raise
Who know both shade and sunlight, and whose life
Hath learnt victorious strife
Of courage and of trust and hope still dear,
With passion and with grief, with danger and with fear.

Upriseth now a cry,
Plaintive and piercing, to the brazen sky:
Help, Lord! the harvest days are gone;
Help, Lord! for other help is none;
The infant children cry for bread,
And no man breaketh it. The suckling's tongue for thirst
Now cleaveth to his mouth. Our land is cursed;
Our wasted Zion mourns, in vain her hands are spread.

A mother's tale of grief,
Of sudden blight upon the chief,
The only flower of love that cheered her widowed need:
O loneliest! O desolate indeed!
Were it not mockery to whisper here
A word of hope and cheer?

A mountain brow, an awe-struck crowd,
The prayer-sent flame, the prayer-sent cloud,
A mighty faith, a more than kingly power,
Changed for depression's darkest hour,
For one lone shadow in the desert sought,
A fainting frame, a spirit overwrought,
A sense of labour vain, and strength all spent for nought.

Death hovering near,
With visible terror-spear
Of famine, or a murder-stainèd sword,
A stricken land forsaken of her Lord;
While bowed with doubled fear,
The faithful few appear;
O sorrows manifold outpoured!

Is blessing built upon such dark foundation;
And can a temple rising from such woe,
Rising upon such mournful crypts below,
Be filled with light and joy and sounding adoration?

O strange mosaic! wondrously inlaid
Are all its depths of shade,
With beauteous stones of promise, marbles fair
Of trust and calm, and flashing brightly, there
The precious gems of praise are set, and shine
Resplendent with a light that almost seems Divine.

Thanks be to God!
The thirsty land He laveth,
The perishing He saveth;
The floods lift up their voices,
The answering earth rejoices.
Thanks be to Him, and never-ending laud,
For this new token of His bounteous love,
Who reigns in might the waterfloods above:
The gathering waters rush along;
And leaps the exultant shout, one cataract of song,
Thanks be to God!

Thus joyously we sing;
Nor is this all the praise we bring.
We need not wait for earthquake, storm, and fire
To lift our praises higher;
Nor wait for heaven-dawn ere we join the hymn
Of throne-surrounding cherubim;
For even on earth their anthem hath begun,
To Him, the Mighty and the Holy One.

We know the still small Voice in many a word
Of guidance, and command, and promise heard;
And, knowing it, we bow before His feet,
With love and awe the seraph-strain repeat,
Holy, Holy, Holy! God the Lord!
His glory fills the earth, His name be all-adored.

O Lord, our Lord! how excellent Thy name
Throughout this universal frame!
Therefore Thy children rest
Beneath the shadow of Thy wings,
A shelter safe and blest;
And tune their often tremulous strings
Thy love to praise, Thy glory to proclaim,
The Merciful, the Gracious One, eternally The Same.

III. PART III. Handel's ‘Messiah.’

‘. . . but above all, for Thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ.’

Hush! for a master harp is tuned again,
In truest unison with choirs above,
For prelude to a loftier, sweeter strain,
The praise of God's inestimable love;
Who sent redemption to a world of woe,
That all a Father's heart His banished ones might know.

Hush! while on silvery wing of holiest song
Floats forth the old, dear story of our peace,
His coming, the Desire of Ages long,
To wear our chains, and win our glad release.

Our wondering joy, to hear such tidings blest,
Is crowned with ‘Come to Him, and He will give you rest.’

Rest, by His sorrow! Bruisèd for our sin,
Behold the Lamb of God! His death our life.
Now lift your heads, ye gates! He entereth in,
Christ risen indeed, and Conqueror in the strife.
Thanks, thanks to Him who won, and Him who gave
Such victory of love, such triumph o'er the grave.

Hark! ‘Hallelujah!’ O sublimest strain!
Is it prophetic echo of the day
When He, our Saviour and our King, shall reign,
And all the earth shall own His righteous sway?
Lift heart and voice, and swell the mighty chords,
While hallelujahs peal, to Him, the Lord of lords!

‘Worthy of all adoration,
Is the Lamb that once was slain,’
Cry, in raptured exultation,
His redeemed from every nation;
Angel myriads join the strain,
Sounding from their sinless strings
Glory to the King of kings:
Harping, with their harps of gold,
Praise which never can be told.

Hallelujahs full and swelling
Rise around His throne of might,
All our highest laud excelling,
Holy and Immortal, dwelling
In the unapproachèd light,

He is worthy to receive
All that heaven and earth can give;
Blessing, honour, glory, might,
All are His by glorious right.

As the sound of many waters
Let the full Amen arise!
Hallelujah! Ceasing never,
Sounding through the great for ever,
Linking all its harmonies;
Through eternities of bliss,
Lord, our rapture shall be this;
And our endless life shall be
One Amen of praise to Thee.

Not Yet.

[_]

John xiii. 7.

Not yet thou knowest what I do,
O feeble child of earth,
Whose life is but to angel view
The morning of thy birth!
The smallest leaf, the simplest flower,
The wild bee's honey-cell,
Have lessons of My love and power
Too hard for thee to spell.

Thou knowest not how I uphold
The little thou dost scan;
And how much less canst thou unfold
My universal plan,

Where all thy mind can grasp of space
Is but a grain of sand;—
The time thy boldest thought can trace,
One ripple on the strand!

Not yet thou knowest what I do,
In this wild, warring world,
Whose prince doth still triumphant view
Confusion's flag unfurled;
Nor how each proud and daring thought
Is subject to My will,
Each strong and secret purpose brought
My counsel to fulfil.

Not yet thou knowest how I bid
Each passing hour entwine
Its grief or joy, its hope or fear,
In one great love-design;
Nor how I lead thee through the night,
By many a various way,
Still upward to unclouded light,
And onward to the day.

Not yet thou knowest what I do
Within thine own weak breast,
To mould thee to My image true,
And fit thee for My rest.
But yield thee to My loving skill;
The veilèd work of grace,
From day to day progressing still,
It is not thine to trace.

Yes, walk by faith and not by sight,
Fast clinging to My hand;
Content to feel My love and might,
Not yet to understand.
A little while thy course pursue,
Till grace to glory grow;
Then what I am, and what I do,
Hereafter thou shalt know.

Thanksgiving.

Thanks be to God! to whom earth owes
Sunshine and breeze,
The heath-clad hill, the vale's repose,
Streamlet and seas,
The snowdrop and the summer rose,
The many-voicèd trees.

Thanks for the darkness that reveals
Night's starry dower;
And for the sable cloud that heals
Each fevered flower;
And for the rushing storm that peals
Our weakness and Thy power.

Thanks for the sweetly-lingering might
In music's tone;
For paths of knowledge, whose calm light
Is all Thine own;
For thoughts that at the Infinite
Fold their bright wings alone.

Yet thanks that silence oft may flow
In dewlike store;
Thanks for the mysteries that show
How small our lore;
Thanks that we here so little know,
And trust Thee all the more!

Thanks for the gladness that entwines
Our path below;
Each sunrise that incarnadines
The cold, still snow;
Thanks for the light of love which shines
With brightest earthly glow.

Thanks for the sickness and the grief
Which none may flee;
For loved ones standing now around
The crystal sea;
And for the weariness of heart
Which only rests in Thee.

Thanks for Thine own thrice-blessèd Word,
And Sabbath rest;
Thanks for the hope of glory stored
In mansions blest;
Thanks for the Spirit's comfort poured
Into the trembling breast.

Thanks, more than thanks, to Him ascend,
Who died to win
Our life, and every trophy rend
From Death and Sin;

Till, when the thanks of Earth shall end,
The thanks of Heaven begin.

Note.—It may be well to say, that these verses were in print before the writer either saw or heard of the beautiful little poem by Adelaide Proctor on the same theme.

Life-Crystals.

The world is full of crystals. Swift, or slow,
Or dark, or bright their varying formation;
From pure calm heights of fair untrodden snow
To fire-wrought depths of earliest creation.
And life is full of crystals; forming still
In myriad-shaped results from good and seeming ill.

Yes! forming everywhere; in busiest street,
In noisiest throng. Oh how it would astound us,
The strange soul-chemistry of some we meet
In slight and passing talk! For all around us,
Deep inner silence broods o'er gems to be.
Now, in three visioned hearts trace out the work with me!

A heart that wonderingly received the flow
Of marvels and of mysteries of being,
Of sympathies and tensions, joy and woe;
Each earnestly from baser substance freeing:
A great life-mixture, full, and deep, and strong:
A sudden touch, and lo! it crystallized in song.

Then forth it flashed among the souls of men
Its own prismatic radiance, brightly sealing

A several rainbow for each several ken;
The secrets of the distant stars revealing;
Reflecting many a heart's clear rays unknown,
And, freely shedding light, it analyzed their own.

A heart from which all joy had ebbed away,
And grief poured in a flood of burning anguish,
Then sealed the molten glow; till, day by day,
The fires without, within, begin to languish:
Then ‘afterward’ came coolness; all was well,
And from the broken crust a shining crystal fell.

A mourner found, and fastened on her breast
The soft-hued gem, the prized by mourners only;
With sense of treasure gained she sought her rest,
No longer wandering in the twilight lonely;
The sorrow-crystal glittering in the dark,
While faith and hope shone out to greet its starry spark.

A heart where emptiness seemed emptier made
By colourless remains of tasteless pleasure;
ONE came, and pitying the hollow shade,
Poured in His own strong love in fullest measure;
Then shadowed it with silent falling night,
And stilled it with the solemn Presence of His might.

A little while, then found the Master there
Love-crystals, sparkling in the joyous morning;
He stooped to gaze, and smiled to own them fair,
A treasured choice for His own rich adorning;
Then set them in His diadem above,
To mingle evermore with His own light and love.

Not your own.

‘Not your own!’ but His ye are,
Who hath paid a price untold
For your life, exceeding far
All earth's store of gems and gold.
With the precious blood of Christ,
Ransom treasure all unpriced,
Full redemption is procured,
Full salvation is assured.

‘Not your own!’ but His by right,
His peculiar treasure now,
Fair and precious in His sight,
Purchased jewels for His brow.
He will keep what thus He sought,
Safely guard the dearly bought,
Cherish that which He did choose,
Always love and never lose.

‘Not your own!’ but His, the King,
His, the Lord of earth and sky,
His, to whom archangels bring
Homage deep and praises high.
What can royal birth bestow?
Or the proudest titles show?
Can such dignity be known
As the glorious name, ‘His own!’

‘Not your own!’ To Him ye owe
All your life and all your love;

Live, that ye His praise may show,
Who is yet all praise above.
Every day and every hour,
Every gift and every power,
Consecrate to Him alone,
Who hath claimed you for His own.

Teach us, Master, how to give
All we have and are to Thee;
Grant us, Saviour, while we live,
Wholly, only, Thine to be.
Henceforth be our calling high
Thee to serve and glorify;
Ours no longer, but Thine own,
Thine for ever, Thine alone!

Wounded.

Only a look and a motion that nobody saw or heard,
Past in a moment and over, with never the sound of a word;
Streams of converse around me smoothly and cheerily flow,
But a terrible stab has been given, a silent and staggering blow.

Guesses the hand that gave it hardly a tithe of the smart,
Nothing at all of the anguish that fiercely leapt up in my heart,

Scorching and scathing its peace, while a tremulous nerve to the brain
Flashed up a telegram sudden, a message of quivering pain.

They must be merry without me, for how can I sing tonight?
They will only think I am tired, and thoughtfully shade the light;
Finger and voice would fail while the wound is open and sore;
Bleeding away the strength I had gathered for days before.

Only a look and a motion! Yes, but we little know
How from each dwarf-like ‘only’ a giant of power may grow;
The thundering avalanche crushes, loosened by only a breath,
And only a colourless drop may be laden with sudden death.

Only a word of command, but it loses or wins the field;
Only a stroke of the pen, but a heart is broken or healed;
Only a step may sever, pole-wide, future and past;
Only a touch may rivet links which for life shall last.

Only a look and a motion! Why was the wound so deep?
Were it no echo of sorrow, hushed for a while to sleep,
Were it no shadow of fear, far o'er the future thrown,
Slight were the suffering now, if it bore on the present alone.

Ah! I would smile it away, but 'tis all too fresh and too keen;
Perhaps I may some day recall it as if it had never been;
Now I can only be still, and endure where I cannot cope,
Praying for meekness and patience, praying for faith and hope.

Is it an answer already that words to my mind are brought,
Floating like shining lilies on waters of gloomiest thought?
Simple and short is the sentence, but oh! what it comprehends!
‘Those with which I was wounded, in the house of My friends.’

Floating still on my heart, while I listen again and again,
Stilling the anxious throbbing, soothing the icy pain,
Proving its sacred mission healing and balm to bring.
‘Coming?’ Yes, if you want me! Yes, I am ready to sing.

Whose I am.

Jesus, Master, whose I am,
Purchased Thine alone to be,
By Thy blood, O spotless Lamb,
Shed so willingly for me;
Let my heart be all Thine own,
Let me live to Thee alone.

Other lords have long held sway;
Now, Thy name alone to bear,
Thy dear voice alone obey,
Is my daily, hourly prayer.
Whom have I in heaven but Thee?
Nothing else my joy can be.

Jesus, Master! I am Thine;
Keep me faithful, keep me near;
Let Thy presence in me shine
All my homeward way to cheer.
Jesus! at Thy feet I fall,
Oh, be Thou my All-in-all.

Whom I serve.

Jesus, Master, whom I serve,
Though so feebly and so ill,
Strengthen hand and heart and nerve
All Thy bidding to fulfil;
Open Thou mine eyes to see
All the work Thou hast for me.

Lord, Thou needest not, I know,
Service such as I can bring;
Yet I long to prove and show
Full allegiance to my King.
Thou an honour art to me,
Let me be a praise to Thee.

Jesus, Master! wilt Thou use
One who owes Thee more than all?
As Thou wilt! I would not choose,
Only let me hear Thy call.
Jesus! let me always be
In Thy service glad and free.

See marginal reading of I Pet. ii. 7.

Peace.

Is this the Peace of God, this strange, sweet calm?
The weary day is at its zenith still,
Yet 'tis as if beside some cool, clear rill,
Through shadowy stillness rose an evening psalm,
And all the noise of life were hushed away,
And tranquil gladness reigned with gently soothing sway.

It was not so just now. I turned aside
With aching head, and heart most sorely bowed;
Around me cares and griefs in crushing crowd,
While inly rose the sense, in swelling tide,
Of weakness, insufficiency, and sin,
And fear, and gloom, and doubt, in mighty flood rolled in.

That rushing flood I had no strength to meet,
Nor power to flee: my present, future, past,
My self, my sorrow, and my sin I cast
In utter helplessness at Jesu's feet;
Then bent me to the storm, if such His will.
He saw the winds and waves, and whispered, ‘Peace, be still!’

And there was calm! O Saviour, I have proved
That Thou to help and save art really near:
How else this quiet rest from grief, and fear,
And all distress? The cross is not removed,
I must go forth to bear it as before,
But, leaning on Thine arm, I dread its weight no more.

Is it indeed Thy Peace? I have not tried
To analyze my faith, dissect my trust,
Or measure if belief be full and just,
And therefore claim Thy Peace. But Thou hast died.
I know that this is true, and true for me,
And, knowing it, I come, and cast my all on Thee.

It is not that I feel less weak, but Thou
Wilt be my strength; it is not that I see
Less sin, but more of pardoning love with Thee,
And all-sufficient grace. Enough! And now
All fluttering thought is stilled, I only rest,
And feel that Thou art near, and know that I am blest.

God's Message.

TO HIM THAT IS FAR OFF.

Peace, peace!
To him that is far away.
Turn, O wanderer! why wilt thou die,
When the peace is made that shall bring thee nigh?
Listen, O rebel! the heralds proclaim
The King's own peace through a Saviour's name;
Then yield thee to-day.

Peace, peace!
The word of the Lord to thee.
Peace, for thy passion and restless pride,
For thy endless cravings all unsupplied,
Peace for thy weary and sin-worn breast;
He knows the need who has promised rest,
And the gift is free.

Peace, peace!
Through Him who for all hath died!
Wider the terms than thy deepest guilt,
Or in vain were the blood of our Surety spilt:
Even because thou art far away
To thee is the message of peace to-day,
Peace through the Crucified.

AND TO HIM THAT IS NEAR.

Peace, peace!
Yea, peace to him that is near.
The crown is set on the Victor's brow,
For thy warfare is accomplished now;
And for thee eternal peace is made
By the Lord on whom thy sins were laid:
Then why shouldst thou fear?

Peace, peace!
Wrought by the Spirit of Might.
In thy deepest sorrow and sorest strife,
In the changes and chances of mortal life,
It is thine, belovèd! Christ's own bequest,
Which vainly the Tempter shall strive to wrest;
It is now thy right.

Peace, peace!
Look for its bright increase;
Deepening, widening, year by year,
Like a sunlit river, strong, calm, and clear;
Lean on His love through this earthly vale,
For His word and His work shall never fail,
And ‘He is our Peace.’

‘A great Mystery.’

There is a hush in earth and sky,
The ear is free to list aright
In darkness, veiling from the eye
The many-coloured spells of light.

Not heralded by fire and storm,
In shadowy outline dimly seen,
Comes through the gloom a glorious Form,
The once despisèd Nazarene.

Through waiting silence, voiceless shade,
A still, small Voice so clearly floats,
A listening lifetime were o'erpaid
By one sweet echo of such notes.

‘Fear not, belovèd! thou art Mine,
For I have given My life for thee;
By name I call thee, rise and shine,
Be praise and glory unto Me.

‘In Me all spotless and complete,
And in My comeliness most fair

Art thou; to Me thy voice is sweet,
Prevailing in thy feeblest prayer.

‘Thy life is hid in God with Me,
I stoop to dwell within thy breast;
My joy for ever thou shalt be,
And in My love for thee I rest.

‘O Prince's daughter, whom I see
In bridal garments, pure as light,
Betrothed for ever unto Me,
On thee My own new name I write.

Lo! 'neath the stars' uncertain ray
In flowing mantle glistening fair,
One, lowly bending, turns away
From that sweet voice in cold despair.

Is it Humility, who sees
Herself unworthy of such grace,
Who dares not hope her Lord to please,
Who dares not look upon His face?

Nay, where that mantle fleeting gleams
'Tis Unbelief who turns aside,
Who rather rests in self-spun dreams,
Than trust the love of Him who died.

Faith casts away the fair disguise,
She will not doubt her Master's voice,
And droop when He hath bid her rise,
Or mourn when He hath said, ‘Rejoice!’

Her stained and soilèd robes she leaves,
And Christ's own shining raiment takes;
What His love gives, her love receives,
And meek and trustful answer makes:

‘Behold the handmaid of the Lord!
Thou callest, and I come to Thee:
According to Thy faithful word,
O Master, be it unto me!

‘Thy love I cannot comprehend,
I only know Thy word is true,
And that Thou lovest to the end
Each whom to Thee the Father drew.

‘Oh! take the heart I could not give
Without Thy strength-bestowing call;
In Thee, and for Thee, let me live,
For I am nothing, Thou art all.’

Be not Weary.

Yes! He knows the way is dreary,
Knows the weakness of our frame,
Knows that hand and heart are weary;
He, ‘in all points,’ felt the same.
He is near to help and bless;
Be not weary, onward press.

Look to Him who once was willing
All His glory to resign,

That, for thee the law fulfilling,
All His merit might be thine.
Strive to follow day by day
Where His footsteps mark the way.

Look to Him, the Lord of Glory,
Tasting death to win thy life;
Gazing on ‘that wondrous story,’
Canst thou falter in the strife?
Is it not new life to know
That the Lord hath loved thee so?

Look to Him who ever liveth,
Interceding for His own:
Seek, yea, claim the grace He giveth
Freely from His priestly throne.
Will He not thy strength renew
With His Spirit's quickening dew?

Look to Him, and faith shall brighten,
Hope shall soar, and love shall burn;
Peace once more thy heart shall lighten
Rise! He calleth thee, return!
Be not weary on thy way,
Jesus is thy strength and stay.

The Great Teacher.

I love to feel that I am taught,
And, as a little child,
To note the lessons I have learnt
In passing through the wild.

For I am sure God teaches me,
And His own gracious hand
Each varying page before me spreads,
By love and wisdom planned.

I often think I cannot spell
The lesson I must learn,
And then, in weariness and doubt,
I pray the page may turn;
But time goes on, and soon I find
I was learning all the while;
And words which seemed most dimly traced
Shine out with rainbow smile.

Or sometimes strangely I forget,
And, learning o'er and o'er,
A lesson all with tear-drops wet,
Which I had learnt before.
He chides me not, but waits awhile,
Then wipes my heavy eyes:
Oh what a Teacher is our God,
So patient and so wise!

Dark silent hours of study fall,
And I can scarcely see;
Then one beside me whispers low
What is so hard to me.
'Tis easier then! I am so glad
I am not taught alone;
It is such help to overhear
A lesson like my own.

Sometimes the Master gives to me
A strange new alphabet;
I wonder what its use will be,
Or why it need be set.
And then I find this tongue alone
Some stranger ear can reach,
One whom He may commission me
For Him to train or teach.

If others sadly bring to me
A lesson hard and new,
I often find that helping them
Has made me learn it too.
Or, had I learnt it long before,
My toil is overpaid,
If so one tearful eye may see
One lesson plainer made.

We do not see our Teacher's face,
We do not hear His voice;
And yet we know that He is near,
We feel it, and rejoice.
There is a music round our hearts,
Set in no mortal key;
There is a Presence with our souls,
We know that it is He.

His loving teaching cannot fail;
And we shall know at last
Each task that seemed so hard and strange,
When learning time is past.
Oh! may we learn to love Him more,
By every opening page,

By every lesson He shall mark
With daily ripening age.

And then, to ‘know as we are known’
Shall be our glorious prize,
To see the Teacher who hath been
So patient and so wise.
O joy untold! Yet not alone
Shall ours the gladness be;
The travail of His soul in us
Our Saviour-God shall see.

Auntie's Lessons.

They said their texts, and their hymns they sang,
On that sunny Sabbath-day;
And yet there was time ere the church-bell rang,
So I bid them trot away.
And leave me to rest and read alone,
Where the ash-tree's shade o'er the lawn was thrown.

But oh! 'twas a cry and a pleading sore,
‘O Auntie! we will not tease,
But tell us one Sunday story more;
We will sit so still on the grassy floor;
Tell us the one you told before
Of little black Mumu, please,
Whom, deaf and dumb, and sick and lone,
The good ship brought to Sierra Leone.’

Willie begged loud, and Francie low,
And Alice, who could resist her?
Certainly not myself, and so
The story was just beginning, when lo!
To the rescue came my sister.
‘I will tell you a story to-day;
Aunt Fanny has all her own lessons to say!’

Wonderful notion, and not at all clear!
Alfred looked quite astounded.
Who in the world my lessons could hear?
They guessed at every one far and near,
'Twas a mystery unbounded.
They settled at last that it must be
Grandpapa Havergal over the sea.

Then merry eyes grew grave and wise,
On tiptoe Alice trod;
She had a better thought than they,
And whispered low, ‘Does Auntie say
Her lessons all to God?’
How little the import deep she knew
Of those baby-words, so sweet and true!

Little she knew what they enfold!—
A treasure of happy thought;
A tiny casket of virgin gold,
With jewels of comfort fraught.
Great men's wisdom may pass away,
Dear Alice's words in my heart will stay.

Rest.

‘Thou hast made us for Thyself, and the heart never resteth till it findeth rest in Thee.’—St. Augustine.

Made for Thyself, O God!
Made for Thy love, Thy service, Thy delight;
Made to show forth Thy wisdom, grace, and might;
Made for Thy praise, whom veiled archangels laud;
Oh strange and glorious thought, that we may be
A joy to Thee!

Yet the heart turns away
From this grand destiny of bliss, and deems
'Twas made for its por self, for passing dreams,
Chasing illusions melting day by day;
Till for ourselves we read on this world's best,
‘This is not rest!’

Nor can the vain toil cease,
Till in the shadowy maze of life we meet
One who can guide our aching, wayward feet
To find Himself, our Way, our Life, our Peace.
In Him the long unrest is soothed and stilled;
Our hearts are filled.

O rest, so true, so sweet!
(Would it were shared by all the weary world!)
'Neath shadowing banner of His love unfurled,
We bend to kiss the Master's piercèd feet;
Then lean our love upon His loving breast,
And know God's rest.

One Question, Many Answers.

‘What wouldst thou be?’
The question hath wakened wild thoughts in me,
And a thousand responses, like ghosts from their graves,
Arise from my soul's unexplored deep caves,
The echoes of every varying mood
Of a wayward spirit all unsubdued;
The voices which thrill through my inmost breast
May tell me of gladness, but not of rest.
What wouldst thou be?
'Tis well that the answer is not for me.

‘What wouldst thou be?’
An eagle soaring rejoicingly.
One who may rise on the lightning's wing,
Till our wide, wide world seem a tiny thing;
Who may stand on the confines of boundless space,
And the giant form of the universe trace,
While its full grand harmonies swell around,
And grasp it all with mind profound.
Such would I be,
Only stayed by infinity.

‘What wouldst thou be?’
A bright incarnation of melody.
One whose soul is a fairy lute,
Waking such tones as bid all be mute,
Breathing such notes as may silence woe,
Pouring such strains as make joy o'erflow,

Speaking in music the heart's deep emotion,
Soothing and sweet as the shell of the ocean.
Such would I be,
Like a fountain of music, all pure and free.

‘What wouldst thou be?’
A living blossom of poesy.
A soul of mingled power and light,
Evoking images rare and bright,
Fair and pure as an angel's dream;
Touching all with a heavenly gleam;
And royally claiming from poet-throne
Earth's treasure of beauty as all mine own.
Such would I be—
My childhood's dream in reality!

‘What wouldst thou be?’
A wondrous magnet to all I see.
A spirit whose power may touch and bind
With unconscious influence every mind;
Whose presence brings, like some fabled wand,
The love which a monarch may not command.
As the spring awakens from cold repose
The bloomless brier, the sweet wild rose.
Such would I be,
With the love of all to encircle me

‘What wouldst thou be?’
A wavelet just rising from life's wide sea.
I would I were once again a child,
Like a laughing floweret on mountains wild;
In the fairy realms of fancy dwelling,
The golden moments for sunbeams selling;

Ever counting on bright to-morrows,
And knowing nought of unspoken sorrows.
Such would I be,
A sparkling cascade of untiring glee.

‘What wouldst thou be?’
A blessing to each one surrounding me;
A chalice of dew to the weary heart,
A sunbeam of joy bidding sorrow depart,
To the storm-tossed vessel a beacon light,
A nightingale song in the darkest night,
A beckoning hand to a far-off goal,
An angel of love to each friendless soul:
Such would I be.
Oh that such happiness were for me!

‘What wouldst thou be?’
With these alone were no rest for me.
I would be my Saviour's loving child,
With a heart set free from its passions wild,
Rejoicing in Him and His own sweet ways;
An echo of heaven's unceasing praise,
A mirror here of His light and love,
And a polished gem in His crown above.
Such would I be,
Thine, O Saviour, and one with Thee!

Content.

‘“What wouldst thou be?”
A wavelet just rising from life's wide sea.

I would I were once again a child,
Like a laughing floweret on mountains wild;
In the fairy realms of fancy dwelling,
The golden moments for sunbeams selling;
Ever counting on bright to-morrows,
And knowing nought of unspoken sorrows.
Such would I be,
A sparkling cascade of untiring glee.’

1860.

Not so, not so!
For longings change as the full years flow.
When I had but taken a step or two
From the fairy regions still in view;
While their playful breezes fanned me still
At every pause on the steeper hill,
And the blossoms showered from every shoot,
Showered and fell, and yet no fruit,—
It was grief and pain
That I never could be a child again.

Not so, not so!
Back to my life-dawn I would not go.
A little is lost, but more is won,
As the sterner work of the day is done.
We forget that the troubles of childish days
Were once gigantic in morning haze.
There is less of fancy, but more of truth,
For we lose the mists with the dew of youth;
And a rose is born
On many a spray which seemed only thorn.

Not so, not so!
While the years of childhood glided slow,
There was all to receive and nothing to give:
Is it not better for others to live?
And happier far than merriest games
Is the joy of our new and nobler aims:
Then fair fresh flowers, now lasting gems;
Then wreaths for a day, but now diadems,
For ever to shine,
Bright in the radiance of Love Divine.

Not so, not so!
I would not again be a child, I know!
But were it not pleasant again to stand
On the border-line of that fairy land,—
Feeling so buoyant and blithe and strong,
Fearing no slip as we bound along,
Halting at will in the sunshine to bask,
Deeming the journey an easy task,
While Courage and Hope
Smooth with ‘Come, see, and conquer’ each emerald slope?

Not so, not so!
Less leaping flame, but a deeper glow!
There is more of sorrow, but more of joy,
Less glittering ore, but less alloy;
There is more of pain, but more of balm,
And less of pleasure, but more of calm;
Many a hope all spent and dead,
But higher and brighter hopes instead;
Less risked, more won;
Less planned and dreamed, but perhaps more done.

Not so, not so!
Not in stature and learning alone we grow.
Though we no more look from year to year
For power of mind more strong and clear,
Though the table-land of life we tread,
No widening view before we spread,
No sunlit summits to lure ambition,
But only the path of a daily mission,
We would not turn
Where the will-o'-the-wisps of our young dreams burn.

Then be it so!
For in better things we yet may grow.
Onward and upward still our way,
With the joy of progress from day to day;
Nearer and nearer every year
To the visions and hopes most true and dear;
Children still of a Father's love,
Children still of a home above!
Thus we look back,
Without a sigh, o'er the lengthening track.

Misunderstood.

‘People do not understand me,
Their ideas are not like mine;
All advances seem to land me
Still outside their guarded shrine.’

So you turn from simple joyance,
Losing many a mutual good,

Weary with the chill annoyance
So to be misunderstood.

Let me try to lift the curtain
Hiding other hearts from view;
You complain, but are you certain
That the fault is not with you?

In the sunny summer hours,
Sitting in your quiet room,
Can you wonder if the flowers
Breathe for you no sweet perfume?

True, you see them bright and pearly
With the jewelry of morn;
But their fragrance, fresh and early,
Is not through your window borne.

You must go to them, and stooping,
Cull the blossoms where they live;
On your bosom gently drooping,
All their treasure they will give.

Who would guess what fragrance lingers
In verbena's pale green show!
Press the leaflet in your fingers,
All its sweetness you will know.

Few the harps Æolian, sending
Unsought music on the wind:
Else must love and skill be blending
Music's full response to find.

‘But my key-note,’ are you thinking,
‘Will not modulate to theirs?’
Seek! and subtle chords enlinking,
Soon shall blend the differing airs.

Fairly sought, some point of contact
There must be with every mind;
And, perchance, the closest compact
Where we least expect we find.

Perhaps the heart you meet so coldly
Burns with deepest lava-glow;
Wisely pierce the crust, and boldly,
And a fervid stream shall flow.

Dialects of love are many,
Though the language be but one;
Study all you can, or any,
While life's precious school-hours run.

Closed the heart-door of thy brother,
All its treasure long concealed?
One key fails, then try another,
Soon the rusty lock shall yield.

Few have not some hidden trial,
And could sympathize with thine;
Do not take it as denial
That you see no outward sign.

Silence is no certain token
That no secret grief is there;

Sorrow which is never spoken
Is the heaviest load to bear.

Seldom can the heart be lonely,
If it seek a lonelier still,
Self-forgetting, seeking only
Emptier cups of love to fill.

'Twill not be a fruitless labour,
Overcome this ill with good;
Try to understand your neighbour,
And you will be understood.

Sunbeams in the Wood.

Mark ye not the sunbeams glancing
Through the cool green shade,
On the waving fern-leaves dancing,
In the quiet glade?

See you how they change and quiver
Where the broad oaks rise,
Rippling like a golden river
From their fountain skies?

On the grey old timber resting
Like a sleeping dove,
Like a fairy grandchild nesting
In an old man's love.

On the dusty pathway tracing
Arabesques with golden style;

Light and shadow interlacing,
Like a tearful smile.

Many a hidden leaf revealing,
Many an unseen flower;
Like a maiden lightly stealing
Past each secret bower.

Oh! how beautiful they make it
Everywhere they fall;
Sunbeams! why will ye forsake it
At pale Evening's call?

In the arching thickets linger,
In the woodland aisle,
Gilding them with trembling finger,
Yet a little while.

Then, your last calm radiance pouring,
Bid the earth good-night;
Like a sainted spirit soaring
To a home of light.

The Star Shower.

NOVEMBER 14, 1866.

Oh! to raise a mighty shout,
And bid the sleepers all come out!
No dreamer's fancy, fair and high,
Could image forth a grander sky.
And oh for eyes of swifter power
To follow fast the starry shower!

Oh for a sweep of vision clear
To grasp at once a hemisphere!

The solemn old chorale of Night,
With fullest chords of awful might,
Re-echoes still in stately march
Throughout the glowing heavenly arch:
But harmonies all new and rare
Are intermingling everywhere,
Fantastic, fitful, fresh, and free;
A sparkling wealth of melody,
A carol of sublimest glee,
Is bursting from the starry chorus,
In dazzling exultation o'er us.
O wondrous sight! so swift, so bright,
Like sudden thrills of strange delight;
As if the stars were all at play,
And kept ecstatic holiday;
As if it were a jubilee
Of glad millenniums fully told,
Or universal sympathy
With some new-dawning age of gold.

Flashing from the lordly Lion,
Flaming under bright Procyon,
From the farthest east up-ranging,
Past the blessed orb unchanging;
Ursa's brilliance far out-gleaming,
From the very zenith streaming;

Rushing, as in joy delirious,
To the pure white ray of Sirius;
Past Orion's belted splendour,
Past Capella, clear and tender;
Lightening dusky Polar regions,
Brightening pale encircling legions;
Lines of fiery glitter tracing,
Parting, meeting, interlacing;
Paling every constellation
With their radiant revelation!
All we heard of meteor glory
Is a true and sober story;
Who will not for life remember
This night grandeur of November?

‘That admirable Polar Star, which is a blessing to astronomers.’— Professor Airy's Popular Lectures on Astronomy.

'Tis over now, the once-seen, dream-like sight!
With gradual hand the clear and breezy dawn
Hath o'er the marvels of the meteor night
A veil of light impenetrable drawn.
And earth is sweeping on through starless space,
Nor may we once look back, the shining field to trace.

Ere next the glittering stranger-throng we meet,
How many a star of life will seek the west!
Our century's dying pulse will faintly beat;
The toilers of to-day will be at rest;
And little ones, who now but laugh and play,
Will weary in the heat and burden of the day.

Oh, is there nothing beautiful and glad
But bears a message of decay and change?

So be it! Though we call it stern and sad,
Viewed by the torch of Love, it is not strange.
'Tis mercy that in Nature's every strain
Deep warning tones peal out, in solemn sweet refrain.

And have not all created things a voice
For those who listen farther,—whispers low
To bid the children of the light rejoice
In burning hopes they yet but dimly know?
What will it be, all earthly darkness o'er,
To shine as stars of God for ever—evermore!

Treasure Trove.

I played with the whispering rushes,
By a river of reverie,
Flowing so quietly onward
Into an unknown sea.

And I watched the dreamy current,
Till to my feet it brought,
Glistening among the pebbles,
The pearl of a fair new thought.

New! yet many another,
Leaning over the stream,
May have welcomed its sudden shining,
And gazed on its gentle gleam.

Long it must have been lying,
Yet it is new to me.
Oh the treasures around us,
If we could only see!

I have broken the smooth dark water
Into ripples and circles bright,
Lifting my pearl from the pebbles,
Bearing away its light.

I am so glad to have found it!
I shall treasure it safely a while,
It will brighten the niche that is darkest
In my spirit's loneliest aisle.

And then, it may be, a dear one
Will wear it, a long, long time,
Fastened firm on her bosom,
In a setting of silver rhyme.

Coming Summer.

What will the summer bring?
Sunshine and flowers,
Brightness and melody,
Golden-voiced hours;
Rose-gleaming mornings
Vocal with praise;
Crimson-flushed evenings,
Nightingale lays.

What may the summer bring?
Gladness and mirth,
Laughter and song,
For the children of earth;
Smiles for the old man,
Joy for the strong,

Glee for the little ones
All the day long.

What will the summer bring?
Coolness and shade,
Eloquent stillness
In thicket and glade;
Whispering breezes,
Fragrance oppressed;
Lingering twilight
Soothing to rest.

What may the summer bring?
Freshness and calm
To the care-worn and troubled,
Beauty and balm.
O toil-weary spirit,
Rest thee anew,
For the heat of the world-race
Summer hath dew!

What will the summer bring?
Sultry noon hours,
Lurid horizons,
Frowning cloud-towers!
Loud-crashing thunders,
Tempest and hail,
Death-bearing lightnings,
It brings without fail.

What may the summer bring?
Dimness and woe,

Blackness of sorrow
Its bright days may know;
Flowers may be wormwood,
Verdure a pall,
The shadow of death
On the fairest may fall.

Is it not ever so?
Where shall we find
Light that may cast
No shadow behind?
Calm that no tempest
May darkly await?
Joy that no sorrow
May swiftly abate?

Will the story of summer
Be written in light,
Or traced in the darkness
Of storm-cloud and night?
We know not—we would not know
Why should we quail?
Summer, we welcome thee!
Summer, all hail!

September 1868.

An April burst of beauty,
And a May like the Mays of old,
And a glow of summer gladness
While June her long days told;
And a hush of golden silence
All through the bright July,

Without one peal of thunder,
Or a storm-wreath in the sky;
And a fiery reign of August,
Till the moon was on the wane;
And then short clouded evenings,
And a long and chilling rain.
I thought the summer was over,
And the whole year's glory spent,
And that nothing but fog and drizzle
Could be for Autumn meant;—
Nothing but dead leaves, falling
Wet on the dark, damp mould,
Less and less of the sunshine,
More and more of the cold.

But oh! the golden day-time;
And oh! the silver nights;
And the scarlet touch on the fir trunks
Of the calm, grand sunset lights;
And the morning's bright revealings,
Lifting the pearly mist,
Like a bridal veil, from the valley
That the sun hath claimed and kissed;
And oh! the noontide shadows
Longer and longer now,
On the river margin resting,
Like the tress on a thoughtful brow.
Rich fruitage bends the branches
With amber, and rose, and gold,
O'er the purple and crimson asters,
And geraniums gay and bold.

The day is warm and glowing,
But the night is cool and sweet,
And we fear no smiting arrows
Of fierce and fatal heat.
The leaves are only dropping,
Like flakes of a sunset cloud,
And the robin's song is clearer
Than Spring's own minstrel-crowd.
A soft new robe of greenness
Decks every sunny mead,
And we own that bright September
Is beautiful indeed.

Is thy life-summer passing?
Think not thy joys are o'er!
Thou hast not seen what Autumn
For thee may have in store.
Calmer than breezy April,
Cooler than August blaze,
The fairest time of all may be
September's golden days.
Press on, though summer waneth,
And falter not, nor fear,
For God can make the Autumn
The glory of the year.

Early Faith.

Whom hear we tell of all the joy which loving Faith can bring,
The ever-widening glories reached on her strong seraph wing?

Is it not oftenest they who long have wrestled with temptation,
Or passed through fiery baptisms of mighty tribulation?

Perhaps, in life's great tapestry, the darkest scenes are where
The golden threads of Faith glance forth most radiant and fair;
And gazing on the coming years, which unknown griefs may bring,
We hail the lamp which o'er them all shall heavenly lustre fling.

Thank God! there is at eventide a gleam of ruby light,
A star of love amid the gloom of sorrow's lingering night,
An ivy-wreath upon the tomb, a haven in the blast,
A staff for weary, trembling ones, when youth and health are past.

But shall we seek the diamonds in the lone and dusky mine,
When 'mid the sunny sands of youth they wait to flash and shine?
Neglect the fountain of Christ's joy till woe-streams darkly flow,
Nor seek a Father's smile until the world's cold frown we know?

Nay! be our faith the rosy crown on morn's unwrinkled brow,
The sparkling dewdrop on the grass, the blossom on the bough;

The gleam of pearly light within the snowy-bosomed shell;
An added power of loveliness in beauty's every spell.

Oh, let it be the sunlight of the pleasant summer hours,
That calls to pure and radiant birth unnumbered fragrant flowers;
That bathes in golden joyance every anthem-murmuring tree,
And spreads a robe of glory o'er the silver-crested sea.

Oh, let it be the key-note of the symphony of gladness,
Which wots not of the broken lyre, the requiem of sadness:
For they who melodies of heaven in hours of brightness know,
Will modulate sweet harmony from earth's discordant woe.

Our Father.

‘Oh that I loved the Father
With depth of conscious love,
As stedfast, bright, and burning,
As seraphim above!
But how can I be deeming
Myself a loving child,
When here, and there, and everywhere,
My thoughts are wandering wild?

‘It is my chief desire
To know Him more and more,
To follow Him more fully
Than I have done before:

My eyes are dim with longing
To see the Lord above;
But oh! I fear from year to year,
I do not truly love.

‘For when I try to follow
The mazes of my soul,
I find no settled fire of love
Illumining the whole;
'Tis all uncertain twilight,
No clear and vivid glow:
Would I could bring to God my King
The perfect love I owe!’

The gift is great and holy,
'Twill not be sought in vain;
But look up for a moment
From present doubt and pain,
And calmly tell me how you love
The dearest ones below?
‘This love,’ say you, ‘is deep and true!’
But tell me how you know?

How do you love your father?
‘Oh, in a thousand ways!
I think there's no one like him,
So worthy of my praise.
I tell him all my troubles,
And ask him what to do;
I know that he will give to me
His counsel kind and true.

‘Then every little service
Of hand, or pen, or voice,
Becomes, if he has asked it,
The service of my choice.
And from my own desires
'Tis not so hard to part,
If once I know I follow so
His wiser will and heart.

‘I know the flush of pleasure
That o'er my spirit came,
When far from home with strangers,
They caught my father's name;
And for his sake the greeting
Was mutual and sweet,
For if they knew my father too,
How glad we were to meet!

‘And when I heard them praising
His music and his skill,
His words of holy teaching,
Life-preaching, holier still,
How eagerly I listened
To every word that fell!
'Twas joy to hear that name so dear
Both known and loved so well.

‘Once I was ill and suffering
Upon a foreign shore,
And longed to see my father,
As I never longed before.

He came: his arm around me;
I leant upon his breast;
I did not long to feel more strong,
So sweet that childlike rest.

‘The thought of home is pleasant,
Yet I should hardly care
To leave my present fair abode,
Unless I knew him there.
All other love and pleasure
Can never crown the place,
A home to me it cannot be
Without my father's face.’

This is no fancy drawing,
But every line is true,
And you have traced as strong a love
As ever daughter knew.
But though its fond expression
Is rather lived than told,
You do not say from day to day,
‘I fear my love is cold!’

You do not think about it;
'Tis never in your thought—
‘I wonder if I love him
As deeply as I ought?
I know his approbation
Outweighs all other meed,
That his employ is always joy,
But do I love indeed?’

Now let your own words teach you
The higher, holier claim
Of Him, who condescends to bear
A Father's gracious name.
No mystic inspiration,
No throbbings forced and wild
He asks, but just the loving trust
Of a glad and grateful child.

The rare and precious moments
Of realizing thrill
Are but love's blissful blossom,
To brighten, not to fill
The storehouse and the garner
With ripe and pleasant fruit;
And not alone by these is shown
The true and holy root.

What if your own dear father
Were summoned to his rest!
One lives, by whom that bitterest grief
Could well be soothed and blessed.
Like balm upon your sharpest woe
His still small voice would fall;
His touch would heal, you could not feel
That you had lost your all.

But what if He, the Lord of life,
Could ever pass away!
What if His name were blotted out
And you could know to-day

There was no heavenly Father,
No Saviour dear and true,
No throne of grace, no resting-place,
No living God for you!

We need not dwell in horror
On what can never be,
Such endless desolation,
Such undreamt misery.
Our reason could not bear it,
And all the love of earth,
In fullest bliss, compared with this,
Were nothing, nothing worth.

Then bring your poor affection,
And try it by this test;
The hidden depth is fathomed,
You see you love Him best!
'Tis but a feeble echo
Of His great love to you,
Yet in His ear each note is dear,
Its harmony is true.

It is an uncut jewel,
All earth-encrusted now,
But He will make it glorious,
And set it on His brow:
'Tis but a tiny glimmer,
Lit from the light above,
But it shall blaze through endless days,
A star of perfect love.

Disappointment.

Our yet unfinished story
Is tending all to this:
To God the greatest glory,
To us the greatest bliss.

If all things work together
For ends so grand and blest,
What need to wonder whether
Each in itself is best!

If some things were omitted
Or altered as we would,
The whole might be unfitted
To work for perfect good.

Our plans may be disjointed,
But we may calmly rest;
What God has once appointed
Is better than our best.

We cannot see before us,
But our all-seeing Friend
Is always watching o'er us,
And knows the very end.

What though we seem to stumble?
He will not let us fall;
And learning to be humble
Is not lost time at all.

What though we fondly reckoned
A smoother way to go
Than where His hand has beckoned?
It will be better so.

What only seemed a barrier
A stepping-stone shall be;
Our God is no long tarrier,
A present help is He.

And when amid our blindness
His disappointments fall,
We trust His loving-kindness
Whose wisdom sends them all.

They are the purple fringes
That hide His glorious feet;
They are the fire-wrought hinges
Where truth and mercy meet;

By them the golden portal
Of Providence shall ope,
And lift to praise immortal
The songs of faith and hope.

From broken alabaster
Was deathless fragrance shed,
The spikenard flowed the faster
Upon the Saviour's head.

No shattered box of ointment
We ever need regret,

For out of disappointment
Flow sweetest odours yet.

The discord that involveth
Some startling change of key,
The Master's hand resolveth
In richest harmony.

We hush our children's laughter,
When sunset hues grow pale;
Then, in the silence after,
They hear the nightingale.

We mourned the lamp declining,
That glimmered at our side;—
The glorious starlight shining
Has proved a surer guide.

Then tremble not and shrink not
When Disappointment nears;
Be trustful still, and think not
To realize all fears.

While we are meekly kneeling,
We shall behold her rise,
Our Father's love revealing,
An angel in disguise.

The Song Chalice.

‘You bear the chalice.’ Is it so, my friend?
Have I indeed a chalice of sweet song,
With underflow of harmony made strong
New calm of strength through throbbing veins to send?

I did not form or fill,—I do but spend
That which the Master poured into my soul,
His dewdrops caught in a poor earthen bowl,
That service so with praise might meekly blend.
May He who taught the morning stars to sing,
Aye keep my chalice cool, and pure, and sweet,
And grant me so with loving hand to bring
Refreshment to His weary ones,—to meet
Their thirst with water from God's music-spring;
And, bearing thus, to pour it at His feet.

Silent in Love.

‘HE WILL REST IN HIS LOVE.’

Love culminates in bliss when it doth reach
A white, unflickering, fear-consuming glow;
And, knowing it is known as it doth know,
Needs no assuring word or soothing speech.
It craves but silent nearness, so to rest,
No sound, no movement, love not heard but felt,
Longer and longer still, till time should melt,
A snow-flake on the eternal ocean's breast.
Have moments of this silence starred thy past,
Made memory a glory-haunted place,
Taught all the joy that mortal ken can trace?
By greater light 't is but a shadow cast;—
So shall the Lord thy God rejoice o'er thee,
And in His love will rest, and silent be.

Marginal reading—‘be silent.’

Light and Shade.

Light! emblem of all good and joy!
Shade! emblem of all ill!
And yet in this strange mingled life,
We need the shadow still.
A lamp with softly shaded light,
To soothe and spare the tender sight,
Will only throw
A brighter glow
Upon our books and work below.

We could not bear unchanging day,
However fair its light;
Ere long the wearied eye would hail,
As boon untold, the evening pale,
The solace of the night.
And who would prize our summer glow
If winter gloom we did not know?
Or rightly praise
The glad spring rays
Who never saw our rainy days?

How grateful in Arabian plain
Of white and sparkling sand,
The shadow of a mighty rock
Across the weary land!
And where the tropic glories rise,
Responsive to the fiery skies,
We could not dare
To meet the glare,
Or blindness were our bitter share.

Where is the soul so meek and pure,
Who through his earthly days
Life's fullest sunshine could endure,
In clear and cloudless blaze!
The sympathetic eye would dim,
And others pine unmarked by him,
Were no chill shade
Around him laid,
And light of joy could never fade.

He, who the light-commanding word
Erst spake, and formed the eye,
Knows what that wondrous eye can bear,
And tempers with providing care,
By cloud and night, all hurtful glare,
By shadows ever nigh.
So in all wise and loving ways
He blends the shadows of our days,
To win our sight
From scenes of night,
To seek the ‘True and Only Light.’

We need some shadow o'er our bliss,
Lest we forget the Giver:
So, often in our deepest joy
There comes a solemn quiver;
We could not tell from whence it came,
The subtle cause we cannot name;
Its twilight fall
May well recall
Calm thought of Him who gave us all.

There are who all undazzled tread
Awhile the sunniest plain;
But they have sought the blessèd shade
By one great Rock of Ages made,
A sure, safe rest to gain.
Unshaded light of earth soon blinds
To light of heaven sincerest minds:
O envy not
A cloudless lot!
We ask indeed we know not what.

So is it here, so is it now!
Not always will it be!
There is a land that needs no shade,
A morn will rise which cannot fade,
And we, like flame-robed angels made,
That glory soon may see.
No cloud upon its radiant joy,
No shadow o'er its bright employ,
No sleep, no night,
But perfect sight,
The Lord our Everlasting Light.

No Thorn without a Rose.

‘There is no rose without a thorn!’
Who has not found this true,
And known that griefs of gladness born
Our footsteps still pursue?

That in the grandest harmony
The strangest discords rise;

The brightest bow we only trace
Upon the darkest skies!

No thornless rose! So, more and more,
Our pleasant hopes are laid
Where waves this sable legend o'er
A still sepulchral shade.

But Faith and Love, with angel-might,
Break up life's dismal tomb,
Transmuting into golden light
The words of leaden gloom.

Reversing all this funeral pall,
White raiment they disclose;
Their happy song floats full and long,
‘No thorn without a rose!

‘No shadow, but its sister light
Not far away must burn!
No weary night, but morning bright
Shall follow in its turn.

‘No chilly snow, but safe below
A million buds are sleeping;
No wintry days, but fair spring rays
Are swiftly onward sweeping.

‘With fiercest glare of summer air
Comes fullest leafy shade;
And ruddy fruit bends every shoot,
Because the blossoms fade.

‘No note of sorrow but shall melt
In sweetest chord unguessed;
No labour all too pressing felt,
But ends in quiet rest.

‘No sigh but from the harps above
Soft echoing tones shall win;
No heart-wound but the Lord of Love
Shall pour His comfort in.

‘No withered hope, while loving best
Thy Father's chosen way;
No anxious care, for He will bear
Thy burdens every day.

‘Thy claim to rest on Jesu's breast
All weariness shall be,
And pain thy portal to His heart
Of boundless sympathy.

‘No conflict, but the King's own hand
Shall end the glorious strife;
No death, but leads thee to the land
Of everlasting life.’

Sweet seraph voices, Faith and Love!
Sing on within our hearts
This strain of music from above,
Till we have learnt our parts:

Until we see your alchemy
On all that years disclose,
And, taught by you, still find it true,
‘No thorn without a rose!’

Yesterday, To-day, and for Ever.

A GREEK ACROSTIC, THRICE TRIPLED.

Αει.

Ah! the weary cares and fears,
Earnest yearnings through the years!
Is it not a vale of tears?

Ah! the love we gladly greet
Ever now is incomplete;
If the melody be sweet,

And the harmony be true,
Earlier loss is more in view,
Ill forebodings shadow through.

After wintry frost and rime,
Even now, the heavenly chime
Is a pledge of summer time.

Anchorage within the veil,
Ever stedfast, cannot fail,
If the wildest storms assail.

Angel songs of love are clearer,
Earth is brighter, death is dearer,
If the heavenly home be nearer.

All in perfect union brought,
Every link which God has wrought
In the chains of loving thought:

All our dear ones, far asunder,
Each shall join the anthem-thunder
In our future joy and wonder.

All shall come where nought shall sever,
Endless meeting, parting never,
In God's house to dwell for ever.

For ever.

Christ's Recall.

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

Return!
O erring, yet beloved!
I wait to bind thy bleeding feet, for keen
And 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.

Return!
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 wakening heart within thee burn!
Canst thou remember all, and wilt thou not return?

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 I have seen thy ways, yet I will heal.
Return! Wilt thou yet linger far from Me?
My wrath is turned away, I have redeemèd thee.

Faith's Question.

To whom, O Saviour, shall we go
For life, and joy, and light?
No help, no comfort from below,
No lasting gladness we may know,
No hope may bless our sight.
Our souls are weary and athirst,
But earth is iron-bound and cursed,
And nothing she may yield can stay
The restless yearnings day by day;
Yet, without Thee, Redeemer blest,
We would not, if we could, find rest.

To whom, O Saviour, shall we go?
We gaze around in vain.
Though pleasure's fairy lute be strung,
And mirth's enchaining lay be sung,
We dare not trust the strain.

The touch of sorrow or of sin
Hath saddened all, without, within;
What here we fondly love and prize,
However beauteous be its guise,
Has passed, is passing, or may pass,
Like frost-fringe on the autumn grass.

To whom, O Saviour, shall we go?
Our spirits dimly wait
In the dungeon of our mortal frame;
And only one of direful name
Can force its sin-barred gate.
Our loved ones can but greet us through
The prison gate, from which we view
All outward things. They enter not:
Thou, Thou alone, canst cheer our lot.
O Christ, we long for Thee to dwell
Within our solitary cell!

To whom, O Saviour, shall we go?
Unless Thy voice we hear,
All tuneless falls the sweetest song,
And lonely seems the busiest throng
Unless we feel Thee near.
We dare not think what earth would be,
Thou Heaven-Creator, but for Thee;
A howling chaos, wild and dark—
One flood of horror, while no ark,
Upborne above the gloom-piled wave,
From one great death-abyss might save.

To whom, O Saviour, shall we go?
The Tempter's power is great;

E'en in our hearts is evil bound,
And, lurking stealthily around,
Still for our souls doth wait.
Thou tempted One, whose suffering heart
In all our sorrows bore a part,
Whose life-blood only could atone,
Too weak are we to stand alone;
And nothing but Thy shield of light
Can guard us in the dreaded fight.

To whom, O Saviour, shall we go?
The night of death draws near;
Its shadow must be passed alone,
No friend can with our souls go down
The untried way to cheer.
Thou hast the words of endless life;
Thou givest victory in the strife;
Thou only art the changeless Friend,
On whom for aye we may depend:
In life, in death, alike we flee,
O Saviour of the world, to Thee.

‘I did this for thee! What hast thou done for Me?’

[_]

(MOTTO PLACED UNDER A PICTURE OF OUR SAVIOUR IN THE STUDY OF A GERMAN DIVINE.)

I gave My life for thee,

Gal. ii. 20.

My precious blood I shed,

1 Pet. i. 19.

That thou might'st ransomed be,

Eph. i. 7.

And quickened from the dead.

Eph. ii. 1.

I gave My life for thee;

Tit. ii. 14.

What hast thou given for Me?

John xxi. 15-17.

I spent long years for thee

1 Tim. i. 15.

In weariness and woe,

Isa. liii. 3.

That an eternity

John xvii. 24.

Of joy thou mightest know.

John xvi. 22.

I spent long years for thee;

John i. 10, 11.

Hast thou spent one for Me?

1 Pet. iv. 2.

My Father's home of light,

John xvii. 5.

My rainbow-circled throne,

Rev. iv. 3.

I left, for earthly night,

Phil. ii. 7.

For wanderings sad and lone.

Matt. vii. 20.

I left it all for thee;

2 Cor. viii. 9.

Hast thou left aught for Me?

Luke x. 29.

I suffered much for thee,

Isa. liii. 5.

More than thy tongue may tell,

Matt. xxvi. 39.

Of bitterest agony,

Luke xxii. 44.

To rescue thee from hell.

Rom. v. 9.

I suffered much for thee;

1 Pet. ii. 21-24.

What canst thou bear for Me?

Rom. viii. 17, 18.

And I have brought to thee,

John iv. 10, 14.

Down from My home above,

John iii. 13.

Salvation full and free,

Rev. xxi. 6.

My pardon and My love.

Acts v. 31.

Great gifts I brought to thee;

Ps. lxviii. 18.

What hast thou brought to Me?

Rom. xii. 1.

Oh, let thy life be given,

Rom. vi. 13.

Thy years for Him be spent,

2 Cor. v. 15.

World-fetters all be riven,

Phil. iii. 8.

And joy with suffering blent;

1 Pet. iv. 13-16.

I gave Myself for thee:

Eph. v. 2.

Give thou thyself to Me!

Prov. xxiii. 28.

Isaiah xxxiii. 17.

Thine eyes shall see! Yes, thine, who, blind erewhile,
Now trembling towards the new-found light dost flee,
Leave doubting, and look up with trustful smile—
Thine eyes shall see!

Thine eyes shall see! Not in some dream Elysian,
Not in thy fancy, glowing though it be,
Not e'en in faith, but in unveilèd vision,
Thine eyes shall see!

Thine eyes shall see! Not on thyself depend
God's promises, the faithful, firm, and free;
Ere they shall fail, earth, heaven itself, must end:
Thine eyes shall see!

Thine eyes shall see! Not in a swift glance cast,
Gleaning one ray to brighten memory,
But while a glad eternity shall last,
Thine eyes shall see!

Thine eyes shall see the King! The very same
Whose love shone forth upon the curseful tree,
Who bore thy guilt, who calleth thee by name;
Thine eyes shall see!

Thine eyes shall see the King! the mighty One,
The many-crowned, the Light-enrobed; and He
Shall bid thee share the kingdom He hath won,
Thine eyes shall see!

And in His beauty! Stay thee, mortal song,
The ‘altogether lovely’ One must be
Unspeakable in glory,—yet ere long
Thine eyes shall see!

Yes! though the land be ‘very far’ away,
A step, a moment, ends the toil for thee;
Then, changing grief for gladness, night for day,
Thine eyes shall see!

God the Provider.

‘My God shall supply all your need, according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus.’

Who shall tell our untold need,
Deeply felt, though scarcely known!
Who the hungering soul can feed,
Guard, and guide, but God alone?
Blessèd promise! while we see
Earthly friends must powerless be,
Earthly fountains quickly dry:
‘God’ shall all your need supply.

He hath said it! so we know
Nothing less can we receive.
Oh that thankful love may glow
While we restfully believe,—

Ask not how, but trust Him still;
Ask not when, but wait His will:
Simply on His word rely,
God ‘shall’ all your need supply.

Through the whole of life's long way,
Outward, inward need we trace;
Need arising day by day,
Patience, wisdom, strength, and grace.
Needing Jesus most of all,
Full of need, on Him we call;
Then how gracious His reply,
God shall ‘all’ your need supply!

Great our need, but greater far
Is our Father's loving power;
He upholds each mighty star,
He unfolds each tiny flower.
He who numbers every hair,
Earnest of His faithful care,
Gave His Son for us to die;
God shall all ‘your’ need supply.

Yet we often vainly plead
For a fancied good denied,
What we deemed a pressing need
Still remaining unsupplied.
Yet from dangers all concealed,
Thus our wisest Friend doth shield;
No good thing will He deny,
God shall all your ‘need’ supply.

Can we count redemption's treasure,
Scan the glory of God's love?
Such shall be the boundless measure
Of His blessings from above.
All we ask or think, and more,
He will give in bounteous store,—
He can fill and satisfy!
God shall all your need ‘supply.’

One the channel, deep and broad,
From the Fountain of the Throne,
Christ the Saviour, Son of God,
Blessings flow through Him alone.
He, the Faithful and the True,
Brings us mercies ever new:
Till we reach His home on high,
‘God shall all your need supply.’

The Greek word is much stronger than the English,—πληρωσει—‘will supply to the full,’ ‘fill up,’ ‘satisfy.’

Wait patiently for Him.

God doth not bid thee wait
To disappoint at last;
A golden promise, fair and great,
In precept-mould is cast.
Soon shall the morning gild
The dark horizon-rim,
Thy heart's desire shall be fulfilled,
‘Wait patiently for Him.’

The weary waiting times
Are but the muffled peals
Low preluding celestial chimes,
That hail His chariot-wheels.
Trust Him to tune thy voice
To blend with seraphim;
His ‘Wait’ shall issue in ‘Rejoice!’
‘Wait patiently for Him.’

He doth not bid thee wait,
Like drift-wood on the wave,
For fickle chance or fixèd fate
To ruin or to save.
Thine eyes shall surely see,
No distant hope or dim,
The Lord thy God arise for thee:
‘Wait patiently for Him.’

This Same Jesus.

[_]

Acts i. 11.

‘This same Jesus!’ Oh! how sweetly
Fall those words upon the ear,
Like a swell of far off music,
In a nightwatch still and drear!

He who healed the hopeless leper,
He who dried the widow's tear;
He who changed to health and gladness
Helpless suffering, trembling fear;

He who wandered, poor and homeless,
By the stormy Galilee;
He who on the night-robed mountain
Bent in prayer the wearied knee;

He who spake as none had spoken,
Angel-wisdom far above,
All-forgiving, ne'er upbraiding,
Full of tenderness and love;

He who gently called the weary,
‘Come and I will give you rest!’
He who loved the little children,
Took them in His arms and blest;

He, the lonely Man of sorrows,
'Neath our sin-curse bending low;
By His faithless friends forsaken
In the darkest hours of woe;—

‘This same Jesus!’ When the vision
Of that last and awful day
Bursts upon the prostrate spirit,
Like a midnight lightning ray;

When, else dimly apprehended,
All its terrors seem revealed,
Trumpet knell and fiery heavens,
And the books of doom unsealed;

Then, we lift our hearts adoring
‘This same Jesus,’ loved and known,

Him, our own most gracious Saviour,
Seated on the great white Throne;

He Himself, and ‘not another,’
He for whom our heart-love yearned
Through long years of twilight waiting,
To His ransomed ones returned!

For this word, O Lord, we bless Thee,
Bless our Master's changeless name;
Yesterday, to-day, for ever,
Jesus Christ is still the Same.

Mary's Birthday.

She is at rest,
In God's own presence blest,
Whom, while with us, this day we loved to greet;
Her birthdays o'er,
She counts the years no more;
Time's footfall is not heard along the golden street.

When we would raise
A hymn of birthday praise,
The music of our hearts is faint and low;
Fear, doubt, and sin
Make dissonance within;
And pure soul-melody no child of earth may know.

That strange ‘new song,’
Amid a white-robed throng,

Is gushing from her harp in living tone;
Her seraph voice,
Tuned only to rejoice,
Floats upward to the emerald-archèd throne.

No passing cloud
Her loveliness may shroud,
The beauty of her youth may never fade;
No line of care
Her sealèd brow may wear,
The joy-gleam of her eye no dimness e'er may shade.

No stain is there
Upon the robes they wear,
Within the gates of pearl which she hath passed;
Like woven light,
All beautiful and bright,
Eternity upon those robes no shade may cast.

No sin-born thought
May in that home be wrought,
To trouble the clear fountain of her heart;
No tear, no sigh,
No pain, no death, be nigh
Where she hath entered in, no more to ‘know in part.’

Her faith is sight,
Her hope is full delight,
The shadowy veil of time is rent in twain:
Her untold bliss—
What thought can follow this!
To her to live was Christ, to die indeed is gain.

Her eyes have seen
The King, no veil between,
In blood-dipped vesture gloriously arrayed:
No earth-breathed haze
Can dim that rapturous gaze;
She sees Him face to face on whom her guilt was laid.

A little while,
And they whose loving smile
Had melted 'neath the touch of lonely woe,
Shall reach her home,
Beyond the star-built dome;
Her anthem they shall swell, her joy they too shall know.

Rev. iv. 3.

Daily Strength.

‘As thy day thy strength shall be!’
This should be enough for thee;
He who knows thy frame will spare
Burdens more than thou canst bear.

When thy days are veiled in night,
Christ shall give thee heavenly light;
Seem they wearisome and long,
Yet in Him thou shalt be strong.

Cold and wintry though they prove,
Thine the sunshine of His love,
Or, with fervid heat oppressed,
In His shadow thou shalt rest.

When thy days on earth are past,
Christ shall call thee home at last,
His redeeming love to praise,
Who hath strengthened all thy days.

The Right Way.

Lord, is it still the right way, though I cannot see Thy face,
Though I do not feel Thy presence and Thine all-sustaining grace?
Can even this be leading through the bleak and sunless wild
To the City of Thy holy rest, the mansions undefiled?

Lord, is it still the right way? A while ago I passed
Where every step seemed thornier and harder than the last;
Where bitterest disappointment and inly aching sorrow
Carved day by day a weary cross, renewed with every morrow.

The heaviest end of that strange cross I knew was laid on Thee;
So I could still press on, secure of Thy deep sympathy.
Our upward path may well be steep, else how were patience tried?
I knew it was the right way, for it led me to Thy side.

But now I wait alone amid dim shadows dank and chill;
All moves and changes round me, but I seem standing still;

Or every feeble footstep I urge towards the light
Seems but to lead me farther into the silent night.

I cannot hear Thy voice, Lord! dost Thou still hear my cry?
I cling to Thine assurance that Thou art ever nigh;
I know that Thou art faithful; I trust, but cannot see
That it is still the right way by which Thou leadest me.

I think I could go forward with brave and joyful heart,
Though every step should pierce me with unknown fiery smart,
If only I might see Thee, if I might gaze above
On all the cloudless glory of the sunshine of Thy love.

Is it really leading onwards? When the shadows flee away,
Shall I find this path has brought me more near to perfect day?
Or am I left to wander thus that I may stretch my hand
To some still wearier traveller in this same shadow-land.

Is this Thy chosen training for some future task unknown?
Is it that I may learn to rest upon Thy word alone?
Whate'er it be, oh! leave me not, fulfil Thou every hour
The purpose of Thy goodness, and the work of faith with power.

I lay my prayer before Thee, and, trusting in Thy word,
Though all is silence in my heart, I know that Thou hast heard.
To that blest City lead me, Lord (still choosing all my way),
Where faith melts into vision as the starlight into day.

Thy Will be done.

[_]

‘Understanding what the will of the Lord is.’— Eph. v. 17.

With quivering heart and trembling will
The word hath passed thy lips,
Within the shadow, cold and still,
Of some fair joy's eclipse.
‘Thy will be done!’ Thy God hath heard,
And He will crown that faith-framed word.

Thy prayer shall be fulfilled: but how?
His thoughts are not as thine;
While thou wouldst only weep and bow,
He saith, ‘Arise and shine!’
Thy thoughts were all of grief and night,
But His of boundless joy and light.

Thy Father reigns supreme above:
The glory of His name
Is Grace and Wisdom, Truth and Love,
His will must be the same.
And thou hast asked all joys in one,
In whispering forth, ‘Thy will be done.’

His will—each soul to sanctify
Redeeming might hath won;
His will—that thou shouldst never die,
Believing on His Son;
His will—that thou, through earthly strife,
Shouldst rise to everlasting life.

That one unchanging song of praise
Should from our hearts arise;
That we should know His wondrous ways,
Though hidden from the wise;
That we, so sinful and so base,
Should know the glory of His grace.

His will—to grant the yearning prayer
For dear ones far away,
That they His grace and love may share,
And tread His pleasant way;
That in the Father and the Son
All perfect we may be in one.

His will—the little flock to bring
Into His royal fold,
To reign for ever with their King,
His beauty to behold.
Sin's fell dominion crushed for aye,
Sorrow and sighing fled away.

This thou hast asked! And shall the prayer
Float upward on a sigh?
No song were sweet enough to bear
Such glad desires on high!
But God thy Father shall fulfil,
In thee and for thee, all His will.

Thess. iv. 3.

John vi. 40.

John vi. 39.

Thess. v. 18.

Matt. xi. 25, 26.

Eph. i. 5, 6, 11, 12.

1 John v. 14-16.

John xvii. 23, 24.

Luke xii. 32.

Isa. xxxiii. 17.

‘The Things which are Behind.’

Leave behind earth's empty pleasure,
Fleeting hope and changeful love;
Leave its soon-corroding treasure:
There are better things above.

Leave, oh, leave thy fond aspirings,
Bid thy restless heart be still;
Cease, oh, cease thy vain desirings,
Only seek thy Father's will.

Leave behind thy faithless sorrow,
And thine every anxious care;
He who only knows the morrow
Can for thee its burden bear.

Leave behind the doubting spirit,
And thy crushing load of sin;
By thy mighty Saviour's merit,
Life eternal thou shalt win.

Leave the darkness gathering o'er thee,
Leave the shadow-land behind;
Realms of glory lie before thee;
Enter in, and welcome find.

‘Now I see.’

[_]

John ix. 25.

‘Now I see!’ But not the parting
Of the melting earth and sky,

Not a vision dread and startling,
Forcing one despairing cry.
But I see the solemn saying,
All have sinned, and all must die;
Holy precepts disobeying,
Guilty all the world must lie.
Bending, silenced, to the dust,
Now I see that God is just.

‘Now I see!’ But not the glory,
Not the face of Him I love,
Not the full and burning story
Of the mysteries above.
But I see what God hath spoken,
How His well-belovèd Son
Kept the laws which man hath broken,
Died for sins which man hath done;
Dying, rising, throned above!
‘Now I see’ that God is Love.

Everlasting Love.

‘Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love, therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee.’ ‘No man can come to Me except the Father which hath sent Me draw him.’

‘God's everlasting love! What wouldst thou more?’
O true and tender friend, well hast thou spoken.
My heart was restless, weary, sad, and sore,
And longed and listened for some heaven-sent token:
And, like a child that knows not why it cried,
'Mid God's full promises it moaned, ‘Unsatisfied!’

Yet there it stands. O love surpassing thought,
So bright, so grand, so clear, so true, so glorious;
Love infinite, love tender, love unsought,
Love changeless, love rejoicing, love victorious!
And this great love for us in boundless store:
God's everlasting love! What would we more?

Yes, one thing more! To know it ours indeed,
To add the conscious joy of full possession.
O tender grace that stoops to every need!
This everlasting love hath found expression
In loving-kindness, which hath gently drawn
The heart that else astray too willingly had gone.

From no less fountain such a stream could flow,
No other root could yield so fair a flower:
Had He not loved, He had not drawn us so;
Had He not drawn, we had nor will nor power
To rise, to come;—the Saviour had passed by
Where we in blindness sat without one care or cry.

We thirst for God, our treasure is above;
Earth has no gift our one desire to meet,
And that desire is pledge of His own love.
Sweet question; with no answer! oh how sweet!
My heart in chiming gladness o'er and o'er
Sings on—‘God's everlasting love! What wouldst thou more?’

‘Master, say on!’

Master, speak! Thy servant heareth,
Waiting for Thy gracious word,
Longing for Thy voice that cheereth;
Master! let it now be heard.
I am listening, Lord, for Thee;
What hast Thou to say to me?

Master, speak in love and power:
Crown the mercies of the day,
In this quiet evening hour
Of the moonrise o'er the bay,
With the music of Thy voice;
Speak! and bid Thy child rejoice.

Often through my heart is pealing
Many another voice than Thine,
Many an unwilled echo stealing
From the walls of this Thy shrine:
Let Thy longed-for accents fall;
Master, speak! and silence all.

Master, speak! I do not doubt Thee,
Though so tearfully I plead;
Saviour, Shepherd! oh, without Thee
Life would be a blank indeed!
But I long for fuller light,
Deeper love, and clearer sight.

Resting on the ‘faithful saying,’
Trusting what Thy gospel saith,
On Thy written promise staying
All my hope in life and death,
Yet I long for something more
From Thy love's exhaustless store.

Speak to me by name, O Master,
Let me know it is to me;
Speak, that I may follow faster,
With a step more firm and free,
Where the Shepherd leads the flock,
In the shadow of the Rock.

Master, speak! I kneel before Thee,
Listening, longing, waiting still;
Oh, how long shall I implore Thee
This petition to fulfil!
Hast Thou not one word for me?
Must my prayer unanswered be?

Master, speak! Though least and lowest,
Let me not unheard depart;
Master, speak! for oh, Thou knowest
All the yearning of my heart,
Knowest all its truest need;
Speak! and make me blest indeed.

Master, speak! and make me ready,
When Thy voice is truly heard,
With obedience glad and steady
Still to follow every word.
I am listening, Lord, for Thee;
Master, speak, oh, speak to me!

100

Remote Results.

Where are the countless crystals,
So perfect and so bright,
That robed in softest ermine
The winter day and night?
Not lost! for, life to many a root,
They rise again in flower and fruit.

Where are the mighty forests,
And giant ferns of old,
That in primeval silence
Strange leaf and frond unrolled?
Not lost! for now they shine and blaze,
The light and warmth of Christmas days.

Where are our early lessons,
The teachings of our youth,
The countless words forgotten
Of knowledge and of truth?
Not lost! for they are living still,
As power to think, and do, and will.

Where is the seed we scatter,
With weak and trembling hand,
Beside the gloomy waters,
Or on the arid land?
Not lost! for after many days
Our prayer and toil shall turn to praise.

Where are the days of sorrow,
And lonely hours of pain,

101

When work is interrupted,
Or planned and willed in vain?
Not lost! it is the thorniest shoot
That bears the Master's pleasant fruit.

Where, where are all God's lessons,
His teachings dark or bright?
Not lost! but only hidden,
Till, in eternal light,
We see, while at His feet we fall,
The reasons and results of all.

On the Last Leaf.

Finished at last!
Yet for five years past
My book on the dusty shelf hath lain,
And I hardly thought that ever again
My thoughts would follow the pleasant chime
Of musical measure and ringing rhyme.

I remember well when I laid it by,
Closed with a sort of requiem sigh.
Spring in her beauty had swept along,
And left my spirit all full of song:
The wakening depths of my heart were stirred,
Voices within and without I heard,
Whispering me
That I might be
A messenger of peace and pleasure;
That in my careless minstrelsy
Lay something of poetic treasure,

102

Which, wrought with care, I yet some day
At all my loved ones' feet might lay.
Perhaps 't was a vain and foolish dream,
A fancy-lit, illusive gleam!
And yet I cannot quite believe
That such bright impulse could deceive.
I felt I had so much to say,
Such pleasant thoughts from day to day,
Sang, lark-like, with each morning ray,
Or murmured low in twilight grey,
Like distant curfew pealing.
And then, for each, fair Fancy brought
A robe of language ready wrought,
The smile of every wingèd thought
Half veiling, half revealing.
And I only waited, with longing gaze,
For the golden leisure of summer days,
Which I thought to crown with happiest lays.

God thought not so! Ah no, He knew
There was other work for me to do,
There were other lessons for me to learn:
Another voice fell, low and stern,
Upon the too reluctant ear.
Before the solemn voice of Pain
My visions fled, nor came again,
With all their glad and lovely train,
My summer-tide to cheer.

Well is it when, at high command
Of wisest Love, she takes her stand
At the heart's busy portal,

103

And warns away each noisy guest
Whose presence chases calm and rest,
Our powers, the brightest and the best,
Proclaiming weak and mortal.
That so the way may be more clear
For Him, the Prince of Peace, to come,
That which is left all void and drear
To make His palace and His home.

And so the song of my heart was hushed,
And the chiming thoughts were stilled:
Summer flew by, but the hope was crushed,
Swiftly onward my life-tide rushed,
But my book remained unfilled.
For an aching head and a weary frame,
Poetry is but an empty name.
Yet I am sure it was better so,
I trusted then, and now I know.

For ever, I think, the gift is fled
Which once I fancied mine:
So be it! A ‘name’ is not for me;
Loving and loved I would rather be,
With power to cheer and sympathize,
Bearing new light for tear-dimmed eyes;
But I do not care to shine.

So if aught I write may tend to this,
My fairest hope of earthly bliss,
Content with humblest rhyme I'll be;
And, striving less and trusting more,
All simple, earnest thoughts outpour,
Such as my God may give to me.

Written at the close of a manuscript volume.

104

How Should They Know Me?

There are those who deem they know me well,
And smile as I tell them ‘nay!’
Who think they may clearly and carelessly tell
Each living drop in my heart's deep well,
And lightly enter its inmost cell;
But little (how little!) know they!

How should they know me? My soul is a maze
Where I wander alone, alone;
Never a footfall there was heard,
Never a mortal hand hath stirred
The silence-curtain that hangs between
Outer and inner, nor eye hath seen
What is only and ever my own.

They have entered indeed the vestibule,
For its gate is opened wide,
High as the roof, and I welcome all
Who will visit my warm reception-hall,
And utter a long and loving call
To some who are yet outside.

I would lead each guest to a place of rest;
All should be calm and bright;
Then a lulling flow of melody,
And a crystal draught of sympathy,
And odorous blossoms of kindly thought,
With golden fruit of deed, be brought
From the chambers out of sight.

105

Some I would take with a cordial hand,
And lead them round the walls;
Showing them many a storied screen,
Many a portrait, many a scene,
Deep-cut carving, and outlined scroll;
Passing quickly where shadows roll,
Slowly where sunshine falls.

They do not know and they cannot see
That strong-hinged, low-arched door,
Though I am passing in and out,
From gloom within to light without,
Or from gloom without to light within;
None can ever an entrance win,
None! for evermore.

It is a weird and wondrous realm,
Where I often hold my breath
At the unseen things which there I see,
At the mighty shapes which beckon to me,
At the visions of woe and ecstasy,
At the greetings of life and death.

They rise, they pass, they melt away,
In an ever-changing train;
I cannot hold them or tell their stay,
Or measure the time of their fleeting sway;
As grim as night, and as fair as day,
They vanish and come again.

I wander on through the strange domain,
Marvelling ever and aye;

106

Marvelling how around my feet
All the opposites seem to meet,
The dark, the light, the chill, the glow,
The storm, the calm, the fire, the snow,—
How can it be? I do not know.
Then how, oh how, can they?

What am I, and how? If reply there be,
In unsearchable chaos 'tis cast.
Though the soaring spirit of restless man
Might the boundary line of the universe scan,
And measure and map its measureless plan,
The gift of self-knowledge were last!

Making Poetry.

Little one, what are you doing,
Sitting on the window-seat?
Laughing to yourself, and writing,
Some right merry thought inditing,
Balancing with swinging feet.

‘'Tis some poetry I'm making,
Though I never tried before:
Four whole lines! I'll read them to you.
Do you think them funny, do you?
Shall I try to make some more?

‘I should like to be a poet,
Writing verses every day;
Then to you I'd always bring them,
You should make a tune and sing them;
'T would be pleasanter than play.’

107

Think you, darling, nought is needed
But the paper and the ink,
And a pen to trace so lightly,
While the eye is beaming brightly,
All the pretty things we think?

There's a secret,—can you trust me?
Do not ask me what it is!
Perhaps some day you too will know it,
If you live to be a poet,
All its agony and bliss.

Poetry is not a trifle,
Lightly thought and lightly made;
Not a fair and scentless flower,
Gaily cultured for an hour,
Then as gaily left to fade.

'Tis not stringing rhymes together
In a pleasant true accord;
Not the music of the metre,
Not the happy fancies, sweeter
Than a flower-bell, honey-stored.

'Tis the essence of existence,
Rarely rising to the light;
And the songs that echo longest,
Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest,
With your life-blood you will write.

With your life-blood. None will know it,
You will never tell them how.

108

Smile! and they will never guess it:
Laugh! and you will not confess it
By your paler cheek and brow.

There must be the tightest tension
Ere the tone be full and true;
Shallow lakelets of emotion
Are not like the spirit-ocean,
Which reflects the purest blue.

Every lesson you shall utter,
If the charge indeed be yours,
First is gained by earnest learning,
Carved in letters deep and burning
On a heart that long endures.

Day by day that wondrous tablet
Your life-poem shall receive,
By the hand of Joy or Sorrow;
But the pen can never borrow
Half the records that they leave.

You will only give a transcript
Of a life-line here and there,
Only just a spray-wreath springing
From the hidden depths, and flinging
Broken rainbows on the air.

Still, if you but copy truly,
'T will be poetry indeed,
Echoing many a heart's vibration,
Rather love than admiration
Earning as your priceless meed.

109

Will you seek it? Will you brave it?
'Tis a strange and solemn thing,
Learning long, before your teaching,
Listening long, before your preaching,
Suffering before you sing.

The Cascade.

Who saith that Poetry is not in thee,
Thou wild cascade, bright, beautiful, and free?
Who saith that thine own sunny gleaming waters
Are not among ‘sweet Poesie's’ fair daughters?
No Poetry in thee? then tell, oh tell,
Where is the home where she delights to dwell?
But what is Poetry? Some aerial sprite,
Clothed in a dazzling robe of wavy light,
Whose magic touch unlocks the gates of joy
In dreamland to some vision-haunted boy?
Or is she but a breath from Eden-bowers,
Charged with the fragrance of their shining flowers,
Which, passing o'er the harp-strings of the soul,
Awakes new melody, whose echoes roll
In waves of spirit-music through the heart,
Till tears and smiles in mingling sweetness start?
It may be so, but still she seems to me
Most like a God-sent sunlight, rich and free,
Bathing the tiniest leaf in molten gold,
Bidding each flower some secret charm unfold,
Weaving a veil of loveliness for earth,
Calling all fairy forms to wondrous birth.

110

Our sweet soul-Artist! Many a fair surprise
Her colour-treasures bring to waiting eyes;
Her pictures, sudden seen, oft seem to dwell
Like pearls within the rugged ocean shell,
They tell of something purer and more fair
Than earth can boast, and gleam forth everywhere,
Star-glimpses through the trees, or flashes bright
Of meteor glory in a northern night.

Our sweet soul-Harpist! linking winds with sighs,
And blending both with spirit-melodies,
And adding chords that come we know not whence,
Dream-echoes mingling with the wakeful sense.
O strange, O beautiful! though all unknown,
The music-fount of every lovely tone,
The colour-fount of every lovely thought,
By this bright ministrant so freely brought,
Save that we own their true and soothing might
One of His perfect gifts, whose names are Love and Light.

Oh! she is often where we least surmise,
And scorns the dimness of our heavy eyes;
We catch the ruby sparkles of her wing,
And she is gone like dewdrops of the spring;
Again, to glad us with her smile she stays,
And shows her brightness to our loving gaze.
No cave so dark but she may gain its porch,
And gild the shadows with her quenchless torch;
No dell so silent but her pealing voice
Can bid a leafy orchestra rejoice;
No waste so lonely but she there may hold
Her gorgeous court in splendour all untold.

111

And where those waters murmur as they leap,
A song of gentleness, and calm, and sleep,
Within the sounding music of their tone
I hear a voice, and know it is her own.

And where the fair, fond sunbeams blithely play
Amid the hazy wreaths of dancing spray,
A form of fairy grace shines forth to me;
I hail the vision, for I know 'tis she.
She loves that changeful, yet unchanging foam,
Within its arching bowers she finds a home,
And reads beneath its roof of fleeting snow
The secrets of the shadowy depth below.
Then who shall say that she is not in thee,
Thou wild cascade, bright, beautiful, and free!

Constance De V---.

AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF CHARLES MAURICE, PRINCE DE TALLEYRAND.

Ye maidens of Old England!
The joyous and the free,
The loving and the loved of all,
Wherever ye may be;
Who wander through the ferny dell,
And o'er the breezy hill,
And glide along the woodland path
All at your own sweet will;
Who know the many joys of home,
The song, the smile, the mirth,
The happy things which God has given
To brighten this our earth:

112

Comes there a sigh, a longing thought,
In lonely musing hours?
Deem ye there is a fairer realm,
A purer faith than ours?
O cast away the yearning dream,
And listen, while I tell
Of one who knew no other home
Than her own convent cell.

I.

The rain comes down relentlessly,
The sky is robed in grey,
Oh, Paris is a dreary place
On such a dreary day!
But dreariest of the darkening streets,
Where the loud rain doth fall,
Is that where looms the convent tower,
Where frowns the convent wall.

II.

A boyish step is passing
Beneath the dripping eaves,
With monkish lore beladen,
With musty Latin leaves.
Ah, Charles Maurice, the young abbé,
Thou art of princely birth!
For thee shall dawn a brighter day,
A strange high part be thine to play,
With wondrous tact to guide and sway
The great ones of the earth!

113

III.

But the still-increasing torrents
Will spoil the ancient tomes,
And woe betide Charles Maurice
From the wrath of cowlèd gnomes!
So he seeks a low-bent archway
Within the grim old wall,
Where never the laughing footstep
Of a sunbeam dares to fall.

IV.

Anon he wraps the volumes
In the folds of his hooded gown;
Then starts to hear, though he knows no fear,
A sound which tells him life is near—
That he is not alone.
He turns—the passage is dark as night,
He listens—but all is still,
Save the raindrops in monotonous march,
And the ceaseless drip from the mouldering arch,
On the stone so damp and chill.

V.

‘Qui vive?’ he cries right gaily,
Through the cavernous entry's gloom;
But a low, faint cry is the sole reply,
As the voice of one who is come to lie
On the brink of a yawning tomb.
Oh, where is the true-hearted lad,
Who at the call of sorrow

114

But in his thoughtlessness is glad
To help the weak and cheer the sad,
And promise a brighter morrow?

VI.

The cry was one of weakness—
Of weariness unblest;
And a pulse of gentle sympathy
Makes music in his breast.
Through the dark way he gropeth
To the iron-studded door,
Behind whose oaken grimness
Some dwell in cloistral dimness
Who may pass out no more.

VII.

There, in the glimmering darkness,
He deems he can descry
A small and sable-robèd form
On the cold doorstep lie.
The form is that of maidenhood;
And, in that boyish heart,
It wakes a helpful tenderness,
Like that which, hidden, yet doth bless
Through a loved brother's fond caress,
Ere childhood's hours depart.

VIII.

‘What is it?’ said Charles Maurice,
In a softly pitying tone;

115

‘What dost thou fear? why art thou here?
And why that weary moan?’
Then, lifting her with gentle arm,
He bore her where the light
Fell on a girlish face so fair,
It seemed a seraph light to wear,
But for the sorrow mantling there,
And the glance of wild affright.

IX.

Why should I paint her beauty?
Have ye not often tried
To tell of rosy lip and cheek,
Of starlit eyes that shine and speak,
Of cloudlike locks that vainly seek
The snowy brow to hide?
And feel ye not, when all is said
That words can ever say,
The fount of beauty still is sealed—
The loveliness is not revealed
To those who list the lay.

X.

Oh, words can never satisfy—
They are too hard and real;
The subtle charm they cannot show
By which the Beautiful we know,
The Beautiful we feel.
Perchance they speak the form, the mind,
And draw the likeness well;

116

But at the closèd entrance gate
All reverently they bend and wait
Where, 'neath the marble-arching dome,
In crystal-windowed palace-home,
The soul itself doth dwell.

XI.

And who may tell how lovely
The gentle Constance seemed,
When through such clouds of sorrow
Her meteor beauty gleamed!
What wonder that all speechless,
As in a trance of gladness,
The young abbé stood wonderingly,
Before such radiant sadness?

XII.

For the look of hopeless terror
Was softened as she raised
Those orbs of strange, quick brightness,
And on Charles Maurice gazed.
She saw the pledge of kindness
Traced on that high fair brow;—
‘Oh, no! thou never wilt betray,
But aid thou canst not; say, oh say,
Am I not lost? There is no way
Of safe return, I know.’

XIII.

Then the trembling hands she folded
Over the burning cheek,

117

A wild and woe-born sobbing
Forbade the lips to speak;
Till quiet words of sympathy,
So softly breathed and low,
And the touch of that young hand on hers,
Soon bade her story flow.

XIV.

I was a very little child,
Not old enough to know,
Perhaps kind looks had on me smiled,
But I forget them now,
When I was brought to live so coldly here,
Where all goes on the same through weary month and year.

XV.

‘I did not know how lovely all
The world without must be;
The sunbeams on the convent wall
Were quite enough for me;
But others came who knew, and then they told
Of all that I had dreamt, but never might behold.

XVI.

‘They told me of the mountains tall,
Where they might freely roam;
They told me of the waterfall,
With music in its foam;
They told me of wide fields and opening flowers,
Of sloping mossy banks and glowing autumn bowers.

118

XVII.

‘Of other things they told me, too,
More beautiful to them,
Of gleaming halls where sparklets flew
From many a radiant gem;
And then they told of mirth, and dance, and song.
Would I had never heard, that I might never long!

XVIII.

‘They said the sky was just as blue
Above the convent towers,
As where the arching forests threw
A shade o'er summer flowers;
But I grew weary of that dazzling sky,
And longed to wander forth, e'en if it were to die.

XIX.

‘I did not want to change my lot,
I knew it might not be;
I only longed to have one spot
All bright with memory.
To gaze just once upon the world I tried,
And then I would return to be Heaven's lonely bride.

XX.

‘But, oh, I heard no sounds of mirth,
No beauty I could see;
I could not find the lovely earth,
It was not made for me.
And now my punishment indeed is sore,
My only home hath closed on me its iron door.’

119

XXI.

Yes! in her fevered restlessness
She left her unwatched cell,
When all around were summoned
By the deep-voiced matin-bell.
And in the damp-stoned cloisters
To rest awhile she thought,
Where cold, fresh air might round her play,
The burning fever pass away,
And coolness of the early day
To her hot brow be brought.

XXII.

Strange carelessness! no massy bar
Across the gate was thrown!
She deemed that world of beauty near;
She gazed around in haste and fear,
Oh, none were there to see and hear—
The timid bird has flown!
But the rain came down relentlessly,
The sky was robed in grey;
All dreary seemed the narrow street,
And nothing bright or fair might meet
Her of the white and trembling feet;
No loveliness is there to greet
That wandering star to-day.

XXIII.

Then, bowed with shame and weakness,
And disappointed hope

120

She only reached the heavy door
To find it firmly closed once more;
Ah, who shall help, and who restore,
And who that door shall ope?
The strong young arm of Charles Maurice
Tries once and yet again,
But the weighty portal baffles him:
Ah! is it all in vain?

XXIV.

But Constance darts one upward glance
Of blent despair and trust;
There is no bolt, for daylight gleams
Between the scarcely-meeting beams:
Some unknown obstacle there seems,
And conquer it he must.
He strains his utmost strength, the sweat
Is beading on his brow;
It creaks—it yields! O Constance, smile,
The door is open now!

XXV.

From her cheek the flush hath faded,
As fades the evening glow,
In pristine whiteness leaving
The rosy Alpine snow.
And like a breeze of twilight
The aspen-leaves among,
A whisper falls upon his ear
From quivering lip and tongue:

121

XXVI.

‘Farewell! Oh, thou hast saved me!’
And the hand so white and cold,
With lingering clasp of gratitude,
Her wordless thanks hath told.
One moment on that small, fair hand
His youthful lips are pressed;
There is a reverence in his eye,
For grief and beauty both are nigh;
She passes like a spirit by,
To seek her cheerless rest.

XXVII.

They are parted, like the dewdrops
That linger in the smile
Of a storm-begotten rainbow,
But for a little while:
Then one in lonely dimness
To earth may soon descend;
And one with the bright sky above,
Though all unseen, may blend.

XXVIII.

The young abbé hath paused in vain
To hear her footstep pass;
'Twas lighter than the noiseless fall
Of rose-leaf on the grass.
No sound is heard but the pattering rain,
And he slowly turns away,
With the brown old books beneath his gown,
To meet his abbot's gathering frown,
For loitering on the way.

122

XXIX.

Think you he conned the loveless lore
Without a thoughtful sigh
For the loveliness in sorrow,
Which passed so trance-like by?
Among the missal borders
Was no such angel-face;
And such, once seen, fade not away;
Their image shines without decay,
When on the canvas of the heart,
With untaught skill, yet mystic art,
Each line of light we trace.

XXX.

The wing of Time seems broken now,
So tardy is his flight;
He deems by day that she is dead,
He dreams she lives, by night.
Till quick anxiety hath found
A messenger to bear
The tidings that he strove to frame,
From woven hope and fear.

XXXI.

What wonder that he heard not
Her footfall on the stone!
She sank beneath the cloister wall,
Unheeded and alone;
And ere Charles Maurice stood again
Beneath the open sky,

123

For ever on the things of earth
She closed her weary eye.

XXXII.

Constance, the beautiful, hath left
Her dismal convent cell;
She hath not known one hope fulfilled,
One granted joy, one longing stilled.
For her the melody of life
Was but one chord of inward strife,
Was but one ruthless knell.
Her heart bedimmed with sameness,
Her only wish denied,
Oh, what a mockery it were
Her lot should such a title bear,
‘Heaven's own appointed bride!’

XXXIII.

Why should her early spring-time
Be quenched in wintry gloom?
Was it not merciful and wise
To call her spirit to the skies
From such a living tomb?
How might that gentle maiden
Have scattered joy around,
And made the earth a brighter place,
For all her radiance and grace!
But now, unsorrowed and unknown,
Her only memory is a stone
Within the convent bound.

124

Fairy Homes.

I've found at last the hiding-place
Where the fairy people dwell,
And to win the secrets of their race
I hold the long-sought spell.

With the woodland fairies I can talk,
I can list their silvery lays;
Oh! pleasant in a lonely walk
Is the company of fays.

No fabled fancy 'tis to me,
For in every floweret's bell
Is a tiny chamber, where I see
A gentle fairy dwell.

And at my bidding forth they come,
To soothe me or to cheer,
And to tell me tales of fairydom
With voices soft and clear.

Full many a beauteous lesson, too,
Their rosy lips can teach;
Great men would wonder if they knew
How well the fairies preach!

When thoughts of sorrow sadden me,
They seem to sympathize,
And gaze upon me lovingly,
With tender earnest eyes;

125

But when a tide of joyous glee
Is bringing song and smile,
Then brightly they look up to me,
And laugh with me awhile.

Oh! lovely are the floweret homes
Of these sweet summer fays;
God's thoughts of beauty taking form
To gladden mortal gaze.

More Music.

Oh for a burst of song,
Exultant, deep, and strong,
One gush of music's billowy might,
To bear my soul away
Into the realms of day,
From these dim glacier-caves of Life's cold night!

Oh for a sunset strain
Wafted o'er slumberous main,
To enter, spirit-like, my prisoned heart,
And there, with viewless hand,
Unloose each mortal band,
That in the songs of heaven I too might learn a part.

The sweetest music here
Calls forth the quiet tear,
For grief and gladness flow in blended stream;
Oh for the joyous day,
(Can it be far away?)
When one great Alleluia song shall chase Life's tuneless dream!

126

Travelling Thoughts.

ON BOARD THE STEAMER LA FRANCE, JANUARY 26, 1866.

A still grey haze around us,
Behind, a foreign shore,
A still grey deep beneath us,
And Dover cliffs before.
Not one within a hundred miles
Whose name I ever heard,
None who would care to speak to me
A passing friendly word:
Yet not a shadow crosseth me
Of loneliness or fear;
I bless the Omnipresent One,
I know that God is here.

All whom I love are scattered:
And many a month and mile
Rise, mountain-like, before, behind,
Between me and their smile.
Oh that the love I bear them
Might blossom into skill
To comfort and to brighten,
And all with gladness fill!
Ah! helpless love! Yet 'tis a joy
To turn each wish to prayer,
And, where each loved one sojourneth,
To know that God is there.

The nearest and the dearest
Are where the rushing Rhine

127

Bends northward from the Drachenfels,
From castle, rock, and vine;
Where long-lined chestnut shadows
Make tracery below,
And the moss-framed window challenges
The might of frost and snow.
Lit rather by the dawn of heaven
Than earthly sunset glow,
That passing home of faith and prayer!
Oh, God is there, I know!

From thence the wing of loving thought
Speeds on where Severn flows,
And hovers o'er as fair a scene
As our fair England knows;
The home of summer roses,
Of winter mirth and glee,—
Long may that home unbroken,
That mirth unsilenced be!
The blessings of unbounded grace
I pray Him to bestow,
And trust Him for the coming years,
For He is there, I know.

Now westward sweeps the vision
Across the Irish Sea,
And echoes low of sisters' love
Come back again to me.
A beacon bright in stormy night
Of error, rage, and wrong,
That home of love and truth shall cast
Its radiance pure and strong.

128

They tell of rumours strange and dark;
But oh! no need to fear!
God will not leave His own, I know,
His guardian hand is near.

Another scene by gentle Ouse
Must aye be dear to me,
Though all are not together now,
And one is on the sea.
And where a grey cathedral tower
Uprises broad and high,
A home is made in cloistral shade,
Beside the winding Wye.
To seek the richest boons for these,
Why should the heart be slow?
One Shepherd, Chief, and Great, and Good,
Is watching there, I know.

Then, in a busy city,
A crypt all dark and lone,
A name engraven on our hearts
Is traced upon a stone.
Not there the sainted spirit!
She dwells in holy light,
Within the pearl-raised portals,
With those who walk in white.
May all her children follow
The path she meekly trod,
And reach the home she rests in now,
And dwell, like her, with God.

129

New Year's Wishes.

A pearl-strewn pathway of untold gladness,
Flecked by no gloom, by no weary sadness,
Such be the year to thee!
A crystal rivulet, sunlight flinging,
Awakening blossoms, and joyously singing
Its own calm melody.

A symphony soft, and sweet, and low,
Like the gentlest music the angels know
In their moments of deepest joy;
'Mid earth's wild clamour thy spirit telling
Of beauty and holiness, upward swelling,
And mingling with the sky.

A radiant, fadeless Eden flower,
Unfolding in loveliness hour by hour,
Like a wing-veiled seraph's face;—
Such be the opening year to thee,
Shrouded though all its moments be,
Unknown as the bounds of space.

Blessings unspoken this year be thine!
Each day in its rainbow flight entwine
New gems in thy joy-wreathed crown;
May each in the smile of Him be bright,
Who is changeless Love and unfading Light,
Till the glory seem to thy trancèd sight
As heaven to earth come down.

130

Bonnie Wee Eric.

Bonnie wee Eric! I have sat beside the evening fire,
And listened to the leaping flame still darting keenly higher,
And all the while a lisping voice and eyes of sunny blue
Out-whispered the flame-whisper, and outshone the flicker too.

Bonnie wee Eric! To his home thoughts pleasantly return,
To long fair evenings in the land of ben and brae and burn;
Sweet northern words, so tunefully upon our Saxon flung,
As if a mountain breeze swept by where fairy bells are hung.

But sweeter than all fairy bells of quaint sweet minstrel tongue,
Rang out wee Eric's gentlest tone when o'er his cot I hung,
And told him in the sunset glow once more the old dear story
Of Him who walked the earth that we might walk with Him in glory.

‘He loves the little children so;—does darling Eric love Him?’
I think the angels must have smiled a rainbow-smile above him,
Yet hardly brighter than his own, that lit the answer true,
‘Jesus, the kind good Jesus! Me do, oh yes, me do!’

131

Bonnie wee Eric! How the thought of heaven is full of joy,
And death has not a shadow for the merry healthful boy!
To hear about the happy home he gladly turns away
From picture books, or Noah's ark, or any game of play.

‘Mamma, some day me die, and then the angels take me home
To Jesus, and me sing to Him;—Papa and you too come.’
So brightly said! ‘But, Eric, would you really like to die?’
She answered him; ‘then, darling, tell mamma the reason why?’

And then the sunny eyes looked up, and seemed at once to be
Filled with a happy solemn light, like sunrise on the sea;
He said—‘Yes, me would like to die, for me know where me going!’
What saint-like longing, baby lips! and oh! what blessèd knowing!

The lesson of the ‘little child’ is sweetly learnt from him;
No questioning, no anxious faith all tremulous and dim,
No drowsy love that hardly knows if it be love indeed;
Not ‘think’ or ‘hope,’ but—‘Oh me do,’—‘me know,’—his simple creed.

Bonnie wee Eric! Hardly launched on this world's troubled sea,
We know the little bark is safe whate'er its course may be;
And short or long, or fair or rough, our hearts are glad in knowing
It will be onward, heavenward still, for he ‘knows where he's going.’

132

My Sweet Woodruff.

No more the flowers of spring are seen,
And silence fills the summer noon;
The woods have lost the fresh bright green
Of May and June.

But yesterday I found a flower,
Deep sheltered from the withering rays,
Which might have known the sun and shower
Of April days.

I did not think again to find
Such tender relic of the spring;
It thrilled such gladness through my mind,
I needs must sing.

My girlhood's spring has passed for aye,
With many a fairy tint and tone;
The heat and burden of the day
Are better known.

But by my summer path has sprung
A flower of happy love, as fair
As e'er a subtle fragrance flung
On spring's clear air.

I hardly thought to feel again
Such dewy freshness in my heart,
And so one little loving strain
Must upward start.

133

There was spring-sunshine in my eyes,
I had such joy in finding you
So full of all I love and prize,
So dear and true.

My heart is richer far to-day
Than when I came a week ago;
How near to me such treasure lay
I did not know!

The long parenthesis is o'er,
And now, in letters all of light,
The story of our love once more
We both may write.

I have no words to breathe the praise
Which now for this ‘good gift’ I owe;
A wordless anthem I must raise,
But HE will know.

Our Gem Wreath.

Heard ye the sounds of joyous glee,
And the notes of merry minstrelsy,
And the purling of low, sweet words which start
From the silent depths of a loving heart;
And the gushing laugh, and the rippling song,
As the summer days sped swift along?
Saw ye the gleam of sunny hair,
And the glancing of forms yet young and fair,

134

And the dancing light of happy eyes,
And smiles like the rosy morning skies
Saw ye and heard? and would ye not know
What made such mirth and music flow?

There were maidens five, as blithe and free
As the curbless waves of the open sea:
They met;—ye may liken their early greeting
To the dewdrops on a rose-leaf meeting;
Then many a day flew uncounted by,
With Love like an angel hovering nigh,
While the ruby light of his sparkling wing
Flung a tint of joy on everything.
‘In books, or works, or healthful play,’
As the merriest lips would often say,
Or in strange attempts to weave a spell
Which might bid the Muses among them dwell,
Or in a stream of mingled song,
Some of their hours have passed along;
Bearing the sound of each pleasant lay,
And the echo of many a laugh, away.
When the burning day is on the wane,
They wander through some darkening lane,
In quieter converse lingering awhile
'Neath the arching roof of its shadowy aisle.
Where the latest sunbeams kiss the brow
Of Malvern's Beacon, see them now;
Springing o'er moss-bed, and rock, and stone,
As though the green earth were all their own;
And singing forth to the fair wide scene,
In a loyal chorus, ‘God save the Queen!’

135

Again, from out the busy street,
They pass with gladly reverent feet
Within the old cathedral's shade;
And feel the sacred silence laid
Upon the lips, upon the heart,
By time and place thus ‘set apart.’
Then the anthem fills the glorious fane,
Till its solemn tones float back again,
Round arch and column the sound enwreathing,
Till they seem with holy music breathing,—
Music and love; while the choral praise
Images better and holier days.
Yet once again;—with low bent head,
They are kneeling where the Feast is spread;
Not one is absent, all are there,
Its silent blessedness to share.
Well may a bond of love be felt,
When thus together they have knelt.

Would ye know the maidens five, oh say?
The meek, the merry, the grave, the gay:
Each jewel of all the sunlit cluster
Shines with its own unborrowed lustre;—
Then listen and gaze, while each shall pass,
As a half-seen vision in magic glass.

I.

A quiet summer evening, when the daybeams' heat and glare
Have passed away, and coolness comes upon the cloudless air,

136

And the soft grey twilight wakes the stars to glisten o'er the hill,
And the only vesper-chime is rung by one low-murmuring rill:

Like such an evening is the soul of that one dark-eyed maid,
Amid earth's restless turmoil like a calm and pleasant shade;
So soothing and so gently sweet her words of deep love fall
Upon the wearied spirit, like the ringdove's forest call.

Well hath she learnt to sympathize with every hope and fear,
Well hath she learnt the sorrowing heart to brighten and to cheer;
Long years of weary weakness have not passed away in vain,
If the holy art of sympathy they taught her to attain.

Her fairy footstep falleth as a noiseless flake of snow,
So violet-like and still that we her presence hardly know;
But like a gleaming vessel-path, far glittering through the night,
She leaves a memory behind of soft and silvery light.

Within the crystal cavern of retirement ye find
That gem of inward radiance, her ‘meek and quiet’ mind;
Not like the flashing topaz, or the ruby's gorgeous glow,
She is a precious Amethyst, whose value well we know.

137

II.

Now turn we to that merry maiden,
With azure eye, and smooth bright hair;
A lily blossom, fragrance-laden,
Is not more fair.

A dewdrop to the thirsty flower,
A sun-ray gilding every cloud,
A rainbow when the thunder-shower
Is rushing loud;

A spirit full of pleasant brightness,
That speaks from lip, and cheek, and brow,
To whose glad spell of cheering lightness
E'en grief must bow.

Her hand hath learnt with wondrous power
Scenes of rare loveliness to trace,
And picture forms with airy dower
Of beauteous grace.

The breath of flattery hath not tainted
Her simple thought with pride's dark stain:
Because her leaves are richly painted,
Is the rose vain?

Then, as an orient Emerald shining,
Long may her loveliness be set
Among the sister-gems, entwining
Our coronet

138

III.

Say, who shall form the vision-centre now?
She of the large, soft eye, and pensive smile,
She of the earnest gaze, and thoughtful brow:
Who would not love to read her looks awhile,
Or list that often silent voice, whose flow
Like distant waterfall is heard, so sweet and low?

Not many summers o'er her youth have cast
Their varying sun and shade, and we might deem
No breath of sadness o'er her soul had passed,
But for that orb subdued, like some lone stream,
Where the sad willows rest in shadowy love,
While its blue depth reflects the sunlit heaven above.

All calmness, yet deep sorrow she hath known,
Dimming the star of hope which shone so clear,
The song of life hath changed its joyous tone,
The pearl of life hath melted to a tear;
But star and song shall rise in brighter day,
And hers that priceless Pearl which none may take away.

Her sorrow, all unspoken, doth but twine
Our earnest love more changelessly around her;
While we look onward, upward, for the time
When Joy's fair garland shall again have crowned her,
Who as the Pearl of all our wreath is gleaming,
In mild and moonlit radiance softly 'mid us beaming.

IV.

Like a flash of meteor light,
Strangely gladdening and bright,

139

Is the youngest of the band,
Making every heart expand.

Like a petrel on the wave,
What to her though tempests rave?
She will skim each foamy crest,
Making all around her blest.

Like a song-bird of the spring,
She is ever on the wing;
Carolling in blithest glee,
Like the wild breeze, fresh and free.

Like a beautiful gazelle
Bounding over hill and dell;
Like the scented hawthorn-flowers,
Ever scattering blossom-showers.

Can a star of light be found,
Shedding aught but light around?
Joy and gladness must be nigh,
Where her starry pinions fly.

Clear and open as the day,
All may trust her glancing ray,
All must love its rainbow light:
Is she not a Diamond bright?

V.

And the last maiden,—what is she?
She sees not herself as others see,
From an outward point of view;

140

She only knows the scenes within,
The weary conflict, and the sin,
The strivings a better life to win,
And the gleams of gladness too.

But little she knows of the secret cells,
Where in lonely twilight the spirit dwells
In an ever mysterious home,
Where music, and beauty, and sweet perfume,
Grim storms, and the blackness of the tomb,
In morning brightness, and midnight gloom,
In an untracked labyrinth roam.

How many a chamber within is sealed!
How wondrous the little that is revealed
In a scarce-caught whispering tone!
Strange thoughts come forth to her outer gaze,
Wild fancies flash with spectral rays,
And feelings glow with uncertain blaze;
But their fountain is all unknown.

Ah! she would long to glean a ray
From each lovely gem of this summer lay,
For her own are faint and few.
The tremulous Opal's changeful light
May emblem her, now dark, now bright,
Yet blending in love with each sister sprite
In a union fond and true.

Such are the five, as now they seem
In the golden haze of Memory's dream.

141

But the future! who may lift the veil
And read its yet unwritten tale!
The rose, or the thorn, the sun, the cloud,
The gleeful heart, or the spirit bowed,
The song of joy, or the wail of woe,
Which shall be theirs, we may not know.
The sorrow and joy alike we leave
In the Hand which doeth all things well,
And calmly from that Hand receive
All that each coming year may tell
Our jewel-garland lives by Him;
We would not ask of Life or Death,
Who first shall break its shining rim;
It shall be as the Master saith:
He only shall untwine the bond,
So fair and faithful, fresh and fond.
But oh that each who glistens now
In this verse-woven coronet,
Upon the Saviour's thorn-wreathed brow
May as a living gem be set!
Then never shall their light grow dim;
Redeemed and sanctified by Him,
Their life and love in blended rays
Shall shine in everlasting praise.

My Name.

From childish days I never heard
My own baptismal name;

142

Too small, too slight, too full of glee
Aught else but ‘Little Fan’ to be,
The stately ‘Frances’ not in me
Could any fitness claim.

Now, in the crowded halls of life,
May it be mine to bring
Some gentle stir of the heated air,
Some coolness falling fresh and fair,
Like a passing angel's wing.

My father's name,—oh how I love
Its else unwonted look!
For his dear sake right dear I hold
Each letter, changed, as he has told,
Long since from early Saxon mould—
‘The rising of the brook.’

Of music, holiness, and love
That name will always tell,
While sacred chant and anthem rise,
Or mourners live whose deepest sighs
To echoes of a Father's will
He tuned, or child, or grandchild still
On his bright memory dwell.

But ‘what the R doth represent,’
I value and revere;
A diamond clasp it seems to be
On golden chains enlinking me

143

In loyal love to England's hope,
Bulwark 'gainst infidel and Pope,
The Church I hold so dear.

Three hundred years ago was one
Who held with stedfast hand
That chalice of the truth of God,
And poured its crystal stream abroad
Upon the thirsting land.

The moderate, the wise, the calm,
The learned, brave, and good,
A guardian of the sacred ark,
A burning light in places dark,
For cruel, changeless Rome a mark,
Our Bishop RIDLEY stood.

The vengeance of that foe nought else
But fiery doom could still:
Too surely fell the lightning stroke
Upon that noble English oak,
Whose acorn-memory survives
In forest ranks of earnest lives,
And martyr-souls in will.

Rome offered life for faith laid down:
Such ransom paid not he!
‘As long as breath is in this frame,
My Lord and Saviour Christ His name

144

And His known truth I'll not deny:’
He said (and raised his head on high),
‘God's will be done in me.’

He knelt and prayed, and kissed the stake,
And blessed his Master's name
That he was called His cross to take,
And counted worthy for His sake
To suffer death and shame.

Though fierce the fire and long the pain,
The martyr's God was nigh;
Till from that awful underglow
Of torture terrible and slow,
Above the weeping round about,
Once more the powerful voice rang out
His Saviour's own last cry.

Oh faithful unto death! the crown
Was shining on thy brow,
Before the ruddy embers paling,
And sobbing after-gusts of wailing
Had died away, and left in silence
That truest shrine of British Islands,
That spot so sacred now!

In dear old England shineth yet
The candle lit that day;
Right clear and strong its flames arise,
Undimmed, unchanged, toward the skies,
By God's good grace it never dies,
A living torch for aye.

145

'Tis said that while he calmly stood
And waited for the flame,
He gave each trifle that he had,
True relic-treasure, dear and sad,
To each who cared to claim.
I was not there to ask a share,
But reverently for ever wear
That noble martyr's name.

Suggested by the question, ‘What does the letter R in your initials (F. R. H.) represent?’

‘Heavergill’—the heaving or rising of the brook, or gill.

‘A man beautified with such excellent qualities, so ghostly inspired and godly learned, and now written doubtless in the book of life with the blessed saints of the Almighty, crowned and throned amongst the glorious company of martyrs.’—Foxe's Acts and Monuments.

See Works of Bishop Ridley, Parker Society, pp. 295 and 296.

Ibid.

Faith and Reason.

Reason unstrings the harp to see
Wherein the music dwells;
Faith pours a Hallelujah song,
And heavenly rapture swells.
While Reason strives to count the drops
That lave our narrow strand,
Faith launches o'er the mighty deep,
To seek a better land.

One is the foot that slowly treads
Where darkling mists enshroud;
The other is the wing that cleaves
Each heaven-obscuring cloud.
Reason, the eye which sees but that
On which its glance is cast;
Faith is the thought that blends in one
The Future and the Past.

146

In hours of darkness, Reason waits,
Like those in days of yore,
Who rose not from their night-bound place,
On dark Egyptian shore.
But Faith more firmly clasps the hand
Which led her all the day,
And when the wished for morning dawns,
Is farther on her way.

By Reason's alchemy in vain
Is golden treasure planned;
Faith meekly takes a priceless crown,
Won by no mortal hand.
While Reason is the labouring oar
That smites the wrathful seas,
Faith is the snowy sail spread out
To catch the freshening breeze.

Reason, the telescope that scans
A universe of light;
But Faith, the angel who may dwell
Among those regions bright.
Reason, a lonely towering elm,
May fall before the blast;
Faith, like the ivy on the rock,
Is safe in clinging fast.

While Reason, like a Levite, waits
Where priest and people meet,
Faith, by a ‘new and living way,’
Hath gained the mercy-seat.

147

While Reason but returns to tell
That this is not our rest,
Faith, like a weary dove, hath sought
A gracious Saviour's breast.

Yet both are surely precious gifts
From Him who leads us home;
Though in the wilds Himself hath trod
A little while we roam.
And, linked within the soul that knows
A living, loving Lord,
Faith strikes the key-note, Reason then
Fills up the full-toned chord.

Faith is the upward-pointing spire
O'er life's great temple springing,
From which the chimes of love float forth
Celestially ringing;
While Reason stands below upon
The consecrated ground,
And, like a mighty buttress, clasps
The wide foundation round.

Faith is the bride that stands enrobed
In white and pure array;
Reason, the handmaid who may share
The gladness of the day.
Faith leads the way, and Reason learns
To follow in her train;
Till, step by step, the goal is reached
And death is glorious gain.

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Lynton.

Why does it seem familiar ground?
I was never here before;
I never saw this fairy dream
Of wood and wave, of rock and stream,
Nor watched the snowy foam-line gleam
On Devon's bay-loved shore.

It feels as weird and strange as though
My spirit had been here;
And in the mists of long ago
An outline wavers to and fro,
Now colourless, now all aglow,
Now faint, now wondrous clear.

I know it now—the tender spell
On all this pleasant scene;
For memory's first pale flickering light
Falls on a long-forgotten night,
Though conscious lifetime, dark and bright,
Lies all outstretched between.

The dearest name I ever spoke
Was on my lips that eve;
We gave her ‘welcome home’ once more,
Unknown, the last short absence o'er;
And now, she is but ‘gone before
The palm-branch to receive.

I know it now,—she told me all;
I sat upon her knee,
And heard about the cliff so tall,

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The craggy path, the rocky wall,
The ever-chanting waterfall,
The silver autumn sea:

The steep and dangerous way above,
The winding dell beneath;
The rushing Lyn, the shadowy trees,
The hills that breast the Channel-breeze,
The white ships bound for western seas;
One shining marvel-wreath!

A little picture she had brought
Of Lynton's lovely vale:
I fastened it upon my wall,
Half deeming I had seen it all;
While colours came at fancy's call
To deck those outlines pale.

Hers then the charm, so strangely sweet,
Which made me sit and gaze;
'Tis like a breeze from far-off hills,
Or midnight anthem of wild rills,
That cools the fever-fire which fills
Our hot and hurried days.

It may be that the parting time
Has more than half gone by,
That ere another twenty years
Have mingled all their smiles and tears,
We may have passed all griefs and fears,
And her dear welcome greet our ears
To her blest home on high.

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Oh, might it be! That far-off land
Is all unseen as yet:
But when we pass its portals fair,
It may be that some glory there
Sweetly familiar shall appear,
Because we heard it whispered here
By that soft voice, whose accents dear
We never can forget.

A Birthday Greeting to me Father.

1860.

'Tis fully known to One, by us yet dimly seen,
The blessing thou hast been;
Yet speaks the silent love of many a mourning heart
The blessing that thou art;
While traced on coming years, in faith and hope we see,
‘A blessing thou shalt be;’
Then here in holy labour, there in holier rest,
Blessing, thou shalt be blessed.

A Lull in Life.

‘And He said unto them, Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest awhile: for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat.’— Mark vi. 31.

Oh for ‘a desert place’ with only the Master's smile!
Oh for the ‘coming apart’ with only His ‘rest awhile!’
Many are ‘coming and going’ with busy and restless feet,
And the soul is hungering now, with ‘no leisure so much as to eat.’

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Dear is my wealth of love from many and valued friends,
Best of the earthly gifts that a bounteous Father sends;
Pleasant the counsel sweet, and the interchange of thought,
Welcome the twilight hour with musical brightness fraught.

Dear is the work He gives in many a varied way,
Little enough in itself, yet something for every day,—
Something by pen for the distant, by hand or voice for the near,
Whether to soothe or teach, whether to aid or cheer.

Not that I lightly prize the treasure of valued friends,
Not that I turn aside from the work the Master sends,
Yet I have longed for a pause in the rush and whirl of time,
Longed for silence to fall instead of its merriest chime:

Longed for a hush to group the harmonies of thought
Round each melodious strain that the harp of life hath caught,
And time for the fitful breeze Æolian chords to bring,
Waking the music that slept, mute in the tensionless string:

Longed for a calm to let the circles die away
That tremble over the heart, breaking the heavenly ray,
And to leave its wavering mirror true to the Star above,
Brightened and stilled to its depths with the quiet of ‘perfect love:’

Longed for a sabbath of life, a time of renewing of youth,
For a full-orbed leisure to shine on the fountains of holy truth;
And to fill my chalice anew with its waters fresh and sweet,
While resting in silent love at the Master's glorious feet.

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There are songs which only flow in the loneliest shades of night,
There are flowers which cannot grow in a blaze of tropical light,
There are crystals which cannot form till the vessel be cooled and stilled;
Crystal, and flower, and song, given as God hath willed.

There is work which cannot be done in the swell of a hurrying tide,
But my hand is not on the helm to turn my bark aside;
Yet I cast a longing eye on the hidden and waveless pool,
Under the shadowing rock, currentless, clear, and cool.

Well! I will wait in the crowd till He shall call me apart,
Till the silence fall which shall waken the music of mind and heart;
Patiently wait till He give the work of my secret choice,
Blending the song of life with the thrill of the Master's voice.

Adoration.

O Master, at Thy feet
I bow in rapture sweet!
Before me, as in darkening glass,
Some glorious outlines pass,
Of love, and truth, and holiness, and power;
I own them Thine, O Christ, and bless Thee for this hour.

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O full of truth and grace,
Smile of Jehovah's face,
O tenderest heart of love untold!
Who may Thy praise unfold?
Thee, Saviour, Lord of lords and King of kings,
Well may adoring seraphs hymn with veiling wings.

I have no words to bring
Worthy of Thee, my King,
And yet one anthem in Thy praise
I long, I long to raise;
The heart is full, the eye entranced above,
But words all melt away in silent awe and love.

How can the lip be dumb,
The hand all still and numb,
When Thee the heart doth see and own
Her Lord and God alone?
Tune for Thyself the music of my days,
And open Thou my lips that I may show Thy praise.

Yea, let my whole life be
One anthem unto Thee,
And let the praise of lip and life
Outring all sin and strife.
O Jesus, Master! be Thy name supreme
For heaven and earth the one, the grand, the eternal theme.

155

Early Poems.

157

‘I leave it all with Thee.’

Yes, I will leave it all with Thee,
And only ask that I may be
Submissive to Thy loving will,
Confiding, waiting, trusting still.
Thou every fond desire dost know
Which in my inmost heart doth glow;
Thou hearest every secret sigh
When silent sorrow's power is nigh.
Omniscience alone may tell
The thoughts which in my spirit dwell;
But 'tis a soothing word to me,
‘My Father every thought can see.’
He knows them all—the hopes—the fears—
Confided not to mortal ears.
He knows the deep intensity
Of feelings wakened now in me.
And if He knows them, 'tis enough!
I need not fear a stern rebuff;
There's sympathy within His breast,
On which my weary heart can rest.
Nor is there sympathy alone,
Almighty is my Father's throne,
And He can grant me each desire;
His gracious hand may never tire.
He can. But will He? Trust Him yet,
My faithless soul! Can I forget

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That He hath passed His word of old—
‘Not one good thing will He withhold
From them, the children of My love,
Whose hearts are set on things above’?
Not one good thing! But can I see
What may be good, what ill for me?
Can I unbar the massy gate
Which hides from me the way I take?
But His eye turneth night to day,
E'en like the lightning's piercing ray;
Then here is my security,
That God my truest good doth see.
That joy which earnestly I crave,
O'er which my fondest hopes now wave,
Might prove to me the shade of death!
That healing breeze—the Simoom's breath,
If so—it never will be mine.
At such a loss shall I repine?
No! let me rather praise the Hand
Which looseneth the dangerous band.
But if it be a heaven-born plant,
For whose sweet flowers my soul doth pant
If heavenly gladness it shall bring,
And raise my soul on angel wing,
Till nearer Thee each day I live,—
Oh, then that blessing Thou wilt give.
The joy scarce hoped for shall be mine,
A deeply grateful heart be Thine!
Then I will leave it all with Thee!
My Father, grant that I may be
Submissive to Thine own good will,
Confiding, waiting, loving still!

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Matthew xiv. 23.

It is the quiet evening time, the sun is in the west,
And earth enrobed in purple glow awaits her nightly rest;
The shadows of the mountain peaks are lengthening o'er the sea,
And the flowerets close their eyelids on the shore of Galilee.
The multitude are gone away, their restless hum doth cease,
The birds have hushed their music, and all is calm and peace;
But on the lowly mountain side is One, whose beauteous brow
The impress bears of sorrow and of weariness e'en now.
The livelong day in deeds of love and power He hath spent,
And with them words of grace and life hath ever sweetly blent.
Now He hath gained the mountain top, He standeth all alone,
No mortal may be near Him in that hour of prayer unknown.
He prayeth.—But for whom? For Himself He needeth nought;
Nor strength, nor peace, nor pardon, where of sin there is no spot;
But 'tis for us in powerful prayer He spendeth all the night,
That His own loved ones may be kept and strengthened in the fight;

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That they may all be sanctified, and perfect made in one;
That they His glory may behold where they shall need no sun;
That in eternal gladness they may be His glorious bride:
It is for this that He hath climbed the lonely mountain side.
It is for this that He denies His weary head the rest
Which e'en the foxes in their holes, and birds have in their nest.
The echo of that prayer hath died upon the rocky hill,
But on a higher, holier mount that Voice is pleading still;
For while one weary child of His yet wanders here below,
While yet one thirsting soul desires His peace and love to know,
And while one fainting spirit seeks His holiness to share,
The Saviour's loving heart shall pour a tide of mighty prayer;
Yes! till each ransomed one hath gained His home of joy and peace,
That Fount of Blessings all untold shall never, never cease.

Matthew xxvi. 30.

‘And when they had sung an hymn, they went out.’

The sun hath gilded Judah's hills
With his last gorgeous beam;
Ghost-like the still grey mists arise
From Jordan's sacred stream.
The stars, bright flowers of the sky,
Unfold their beauties now,

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And gaze on Salem's marble fane,
By Olivet's dark brow.
In David's city sound is hushed
And tread of busy feet,
For solemnly his sons have met
The paschal lamb to eat.
But list! the silence of the hour
Is broken; the still air
A melody hath caught which far
Its viewless pinions bear.
Unwonted sweetness hath the strain,
And as its numbers flow,
More tender and more touching yet
Its harmony doth grow.
Not royal David's tuneful harp
Such thrilling power had known
To wake deep echoes in the soul,
As its scarce earthly tone.
Within an ‘upper room’ are met
A small, yet faithful band,
On whom a deep yet chastened grief
Hath laid its softening hand.
Among them there is One who wears
A more than mortal mien,
'Tis He on whom in all distress
The weary one may lean.
Mysterious sadness, on that brow
So pure and calm, doth lie;
And untold stores of deepest love
Are beaming from His eye.
What wonder if the strain was sweet
Above all other lays?

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Seraphic well might seem the hymn
Which Jesu's voice did raise.
The angels hush their lyres, and bend
To hear the thrilling tone,
And heaven is silent,—with that song
They mingle not their own.
The sorrowing ones around have heard
Their blessèd Master tell,
That He with them no longer now
As heretofore may dwell.
And they have sadly shared with Him
The last, last evening meal,
And heard the last sweet comfort which
Their mourning hearts may heal.
They do not know the fearful storm
Which on His head must burst;
They know not all—He hath not told
His loving ones the worst.
How could He? E'en an angel's mind
Could never comprehend
The weight of woe, 'neath which for us
The Saviour's head must bend;
Ere long the voice, which waketh now
Such touching melody,
Shall cry, ‘My God, My God, oh why
Hast Thou forsaken Me?’
The hour is come; but ere they meet
Its terrors,—yet once more
Their voices blend with His who sang
As none e'er sang before.
Why do they linger on that note?
Why thus the sound prolong?

163

Ah! 'twas the last! 'Tis ended now,
That strangely solemn song.
And forth they go:—the song is past;
But, like the rose-leaf, still,
Whose fragrance doth not die away,
Its soft low echoes thrill
Through many a soul, and there awake
New strains of glowing praise
To Him who, on that fateful eve,
That last sweet hymn did raise.

‘Leaving us an Example, that ye should follow His Steps.’

O Jesu, Thou didst leave Thy glorious home,
Of brightness more than mortal eye could bear,
And joys ineffable, alone to roam
Through earth's dark wilderness in grief and want and care.
Thou didst exchange the praise of seraph voices
For sin-made discords and the wail of pain,
The anthems swelling high where each in Thee rejoices
For fierce revilings in the world where unbelief doth reign.
Yes, Thou didst leave Thy bliss-encircled dwelling,
Of joy and holiness and perfect love,
And camest to this world of sorrow, telling
Each weary one the way to realms of rest above.
Mark we Thy walk along the holy way,—
Each step is graven, that all the path may trace
Which leads where Thou art gone,—and never may
The powers of darkness one bright step erase!

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And Thou hast left a solemn word behind Thee,
Solemn, yet fraught with blessing;—would we learn
How we may gain Thy dwelling, and there find Thee?
Thou sayest, ‘Follow Me.’ Be this our great concern.
And oh how blessèd thus to mark each hour
The footsteps of our Saviour, and to know
That in them we are treading,—then each flower
Of hope seems fairer, and each joy doth yet more brightly glow.
Oh that I always followed Him alone!
I know that I am His, for I have bowed
In peaceful faith before my Saviour's throne,
And gladly there to Him my life, my all, have vowed.
And He hath pardoned me, and washed away
Each stain of guilt, and bade me quickly rise
And follow Him each moment of each day;
And He hath set a crown of life and joy before mine eyes.
How can I turn aside and wound the love
That gave Himself to bleed and die for me!
How can I stray, and grieve the holy Dove
Who lights my soul, opening mine eyes to see!
O Saviour, fix my wayward, wandering heart
Upon Thyself, that I may closely cling
To Thy blest side, and never more depart
From Thee, my loved Redeemer, Thee, my heart's own King.
And grant me daily grace to follow Thee
Through joy and pleasure, or through grief and sadness,
Until an entrance is vouchsafed to me
In Thy bright home of holiness and gladness.

165

Our English Sabbaths.

O England, thou art beautiful, and very dear to me,
And the spirit of thy noble sons is high and pure and free;
Full many a jewel sparkles clear in the crown upon thy brow,
But one is gleaming fairest in that glorious garland now.

It gleameth with a holy light, too pure for sinful earth,
In the twilight of this shadow-land it hath not had its birth;
'Tis polished by no mortal hand, its radiance is its own,
And it mingleth with the glory of the Father's dazzling throne.

Oh, gaze upon its beauty, reflecting yet the light
Of Eden's spotless, shadeless hours, in this our sin-made night;
Oh, gaze again, and thou shalt see, in that all-beauteous ray,
A gleam of that celestial morn which ne'er may fade away!

It is a gem of untold worth, it is a golden mine,
The pledge of an inheritance,—a gift of love Divine;
A monarch may not buy it,—oh, then let it not be sold!
Oh, England, dear old England, this, thy priceless treasure, hold!

Thy Sabbath is this treasure, a fount of ceaseless blessing,
And thou art rich and powerful, this glorious gift possessing;
Oh, heed not those who craftily would bid thee cast away
The diamond hours of Sabbath rest, no pleasure can repay.

166

There is a cloud o'er other lands, though fair their mountains be,
And beautiful their sunny plains, re-echoing with glee;
But on our Sabbath-loving heart it casts a saddening gloom,
While the mirth of all their songs is as the music of the tomb.

They know no holy Sabbath rest; and yet, above, around,
The trees are waving solemnly with a deep and holy sound;
And the flowers smile to greet His day, and the streams more softly roll,
And all things speak of God to the silent listening soul.

They heed it not! with song and glee the hallowed hours are passed;
The blessings which the Sabbath brings, aside are lightly cast;
And 'neath the sparkling wavelets of unsanctified delight
Is a dark, deep stream of weary toil from morn to welcome night.

There are some who listen eagerly while told of Sabbath rest,
As a thirsting desert pilgrim hears of Araby the blest;
'Mid their changeless seven days' labour they drop a hopeless tear,
‘Oh, would to God that we might have an English Sabbath here!’

Sad is their lot! but there are those within our own dear land
Who would forge for us such fetters, and burst our golden band,
Who sin in deeper bondage yet, while striving to be free
And know not that our Father's law is truest Liberty!

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Colossians iii. 2.

Why do we cling to earth? Its sweetest pleasures
Are transient as the snowflake of the spring;
Like early mist its most abiding treasures,
Or foam of ocean wave. To earth why do we cling?

Why do we cling to earth? Is it the fleeting brightness
Of her gay robes? fair fields, green forest trees,
Grand mountains, lovely dells, or gleaming whiteness
Of silent snow? To heavenly beauties what are these?

Lovely, most lovely are earth's radiant flowers,
Her very smiles of joy, aye chasing gloom;
But soon they wither in her happiest bowers:
In heaven doth the Rose of Sharon ever bloom!

And beautiful the gleaming wavelet dancing,
And wild cascade, rejoicing to be free,
And pure, cool fountains through the green shades glancing:
In heaven the living streams well forth eternally!

Most glorious is the glowing sun on high,
The moon's soft brilliance crowning the still night,
The million starry diamonds of the sky:
In heaven is God Himself the source of perfect light!

Sweet is earth's music! whether o'er us stealeth
The lyre's calm melody, or blackbird's untaught lay,
Or harmony through shadowy aisles full pealeth:
In heaven new songs of rapture angel harps essay!

168

What though the eastern monarch's robes are gleaming
With gold and orient gems, each gorgeous hue
With more than rainbow brightness in them beaming;
The robes of heaven are woven light, and ever new.

All these are beautiful; and we may love them
As His good gifts; but oh! they pass away:
Then cling not to them; seek, far, far above them
The joys ineffable, which fade not, nor decay.

But cling we to earth's honours? What delusion!
Immortal souls they ne'er may satisfy;
How mean, how small e'en tenfold their profusion
Beside heaven's glorious crown and palm of victory.

Hath love of knowledge cast her fetters o'er us?
Here we know nothing! But in heaven's bright day
The lore of ages will be spread before us,—
Yes, of eternity! illumed with truth's pure ray.

Have we dear friends our fond affections chaining
To scenes of earth? But they may change, must die.
In heaven the purest love is ever reigning,
Far more abiding than the pillars of the sky.

Do we seek happiness? No mirage fleeteth
More quickly than all happiness below,—
But oh! no heart may dream the joy which meeteth
The soul which wakes in heaven, its bliss here none can know.

169

Is holiness our heart's intense desire?
Then every glance from earth must turn away.
In heaven all sinless is each voice, each lyre;
Heaven's holiness is perfect, endless as its day.

Yes, beauty, light, and music are above;
There honour, wisdom, knowledge, all are given;
There is the home of friendship and of love,
And happiness and holiness, twin flowers of heaven.

But more, far more than all! 'Tis God's own dwelling,
Thrice blessèd thought! ever with Him to be!
Eternity would be too short for telling
The bliss of even one unveilèd glimpse of Thee.

To see, and know, and love, and praise for ever
The Saviour who hath died that we might live,
Where sorrow, pain, and death may enter never!
And ever learn new cause new songs of praise to give!

Oh, what a prospect! How, how can we cling
To earth's dark dream, when such a hope is given?
Oh may we from this hour, on faith-plumed wing,
No longer cling to earth, but soar to yon bright heaven!

Clouds in Prospect.

Oh pleasant have the hours of my early childhood been,
When all around me seemed enrobed in brightly glittering sheen;

170

When a thousand rainbow tints were in every simple flower,
And a thousand new delights came with every sunny hour;
When I thought the merry birds trilled their carols all for me,
And with heart and voice I joined in their joyous melody;
When all heedless of the darkening storm, I loved the purple cloud,
And listened with delight to the thunder pealing loud.
In those happy days of childhood, I did not think or see
That many trials might be waiting even then for me;
But now, though yet I meet them not, I know that they must stand
In many a varied shape and form, unseen on every hand.
As yet from heavy troubles, thank God, I have been free;
Oh, surely there are few who have what is vouchsafed to me!
But one eclipse hath shadowed o'er my childhood's sunny hours,
And now its sharpness seemeth past, that thorn 'mid many flowers.
But still the saddening feeling cometh oftener than before,
That many a future sorrow e'en for me may be in store;
For all around me seem to have some wearying care or grief,
From which they scarcely dare to hope on earth to find relief.
And my memory loves to dwell upon the merry careless hours,
When I thought the world a thornless garden full of lovely flowers.

171

Earth's Shadow.

I have but passed the first short stage
Of life, and yet I'm growing weary;
For every step towards riper age
The way becomes more dreary.

I look behind;—few years ago
The world seemed full of fairy flowers,—
I loved them; for I did not know
How sin pervades Earth's loveliest bowers.

Like Italy's fair sunny vales
With unknown deathly vapours teeming—
Or like Sahara's sand-charged gales
Beneath a sun unclouded beaming,—

Such is our Earth. Roam where you will,
Seems loveliness the eye entrancing;
The silent glen, the breezy hill,
The sun-tipped wavelet blithely dancing.

But gaze again. Each zephyr's breath
Uplifts a veil, dark truths revealing;
For all is stained with sin, and death
The fairest buds is grimly sealing.

That sense of sin! It casts a cloud
O'er all Earth's scenes of glee and pleasure:
Is nought then pure amid her crowd
Of joys? nought spotless of her treasure?

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Nought, nought! cries Echo. How I love
The spirit which to me is given!
My priceless gem, my cherished dove,
My sweetest, dearest gift of heaven.

How oft I've sought for solace in
My own loved soul in hours of sadness;
Oh, how I love it! It has been
My more than friend, my fount of gladness.

But oh, 'tis sinful! Even here
My simple joy and love are ending;
How can the mind to me be dear
Where sin with every thought is blending?

If e'en my Eden is not pure,
How can my heart's love rest below?
Say, will the passage-bird endure
To tarry 'mid the northern snow?

It cannot rest! Like early dew
A pure warm Sun hath called it higher
Where sin is not; where, holy too,
E'en I may tune a sinless lyre.

Aspirations.

Oh to be nearer Thee, my Saviour,
Oh to be filled with Thy sweet grace,
Oh to abide in Thine own favour,
Oh to behold Thy glorious face.

173

Oh to be ever upward gazing,
Glad with the sunshine of Thy love;
Oh to be ever, ever praising,
Echoing here the songs above.

Oh to be never, never weary
E'en in the dark affray of sin;
Oh to press on through conflicts dreary,
One of Thine own dear smiles to win.

Oh to desire to spread Thy glory,
Seeking it as my only aim;
Oh to be taught Thy strange sweet story
Worthily, fully to proclaim.

Oh to go onward, self forgetting,
Willing to take the lowest place;
Oh to go upward, never letting
Pride of the heart my glance abase.

Oh to become each day more lowly,
More of Thine own blest image gain;
Oh to be made, as Thou art, holy,
Oh to be freed from sin's dread chain.

Oh to be listening every hour
The more than music of Thy voice;
Feeling its soothing quickening power,
Bidding the silenced heart rejoice!

174

Sunset.

(IMPROMPTU DURING A WALK WITH E. CLAY.)

How pleasant 'tis at eventide
To walk with friends we love;
And think and speak of Him who died,
And who now reigns above.

Is there a subject half so sweet,
On which our thoughts could dwell?
No, 'tis a theme for angels meet,
Though we of it may tell.

The beauties that around we see,
On this calm lovely eve,
Show forth His love to you and me,
If we this love believe.

The sunset paints the western sky
With colours fair and bright;
But we will raise our wondering eye
To scenes of heavenly light.

The clouds that round their monarch stay
A light and radiance gain;
While those which tarry far away
Such brightness ne'er attain.

So those who, in this wilderness,
Still near their Master stay,
The beauty gain of holiness,
Of heaven's own light a ray.

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Now, soon the darkening shades of night
Will o'er these scenes be thrown,
The sun's last ray of golden light
Will far away be flown.

Then hasten to our heavenly home,
That land more fair, more bright;
Where shades of darkness never come,
Where there is no more night.

The Spirit's Longings.

When the loveliest flowers are waking,
Whispering thoughts of silent joy,
And the lark, his nest forsaking,
Carols in the beaming sky;
When her mantle Beauty flings
Over Nature's gladsome things:
Yet the soul it doth not fill,
Something seeks it fairer still.

When the crystal streams are glancing
From the Fount of Poesy,
Mingling with the all-entrancing
Sweetness of calm melody:
When the spirit, thirsting long,
Feels the wondrous power of song,
Yet it yearns for something more,
Something which may be in store.

When the heart is warmly glowing
Toward the dearest ones around,

176

And, with joyous love o'erflowing,
Fancies happiness is found,
Softly hushing noisy mirth,
Finds the purest joy of earth;
Even then it must aspire,
Ever seeking something higher.

When the weary spirit turneth
From the dark low earth away,
And with contrite sorrow mourneth
Till the shadows flee away;
When the soul on Jesus' breast
Sinks in lowly peaceful rest,—
Then its yearnings all are stilled,
And with perfect bliss 'tis filled.

The Old and the New Earth.

When the first bright dawn of a Sabbath-day
O'er the purple hills of the far east gleamed;
When in pristine loveliness Eden lay,
And the fairest spot of the fair earth seemed;
When the first sweet lay of the nightingale
Rang in liquid music o'er every hill,
And the verdant waste of the new-formed vale
Heard the first wild song of the sparkling rill;
When in first fresh beauty the young flowers stood,
And their leafy banners the trees unfurled;
When the Maker of all called it ‘very good,’—
I would I had seen our beautiful world.

177

When the dwelling bright of the Shining Ones,
The abode of Him who is Love and Light,
Heard the joyous song of God's holy sons,
As the new-born world met their ravished sight;
When the morning stars caught the cadence sweet,
And took up the strain of the heavenly song,
And each bright one joined from his glorious seat
In the chorus swelling so loud and long;
Praising Him who made by His mighty Word
The new earth in beauty and purity;—
I would that the echo I might have heard
Of their thrilling celestial melody.

When in Eden's lovely and thornless bowers,
All unstained by sin, our first parents dwelt;
When on wings of joy flew their sunny hours,
And the touch of sorrow they had not felt;
When their sole companions were seraphs bright,
And their sweetest music the angels' lays;
When a gleam of heaven's own glorious light
Might often meet their enraptured gaze;
When while dwelling here Love was still their guide,
And the dreaded angel, Death, did not wait
To unlock for them heaven's portals wide;—
I would I had shared in their blissful state.

But the time will come, when, all purified
From its ev'ry spot by a fiery flood,

178

Our earth shall hear, as recedes the tide
Once again the words, ‘It is very good.’
When the song of the stars shall be heard again
O'er their sister joying, the holy earth;
When the purest love shall for ever reign,
And immortal joys have their blissful birth;
There shall be no sorrow and no more sin,
Pain shall pass away, Death himself shall die,
To that fairer Eden may we go in,
And entering, dwell there eternally.

Thoughts awakened by Astley Bells.

Sweet Astley bells! your distant chime,
So tuneful, yet so sad,
Recalls my childhood's earliest time:
I sigh, and yet am glad.

My thoughts return, on swift unsteady wings,
Along the trodden path whose misty light
Revealed dim visions of unspoken things,
Passing, yet bright.
Oh, years have glided by so fast,
That twenty-one have almost past,
And now those softened bells,
With wondrous spells,
Have called the solemn train of bygone times
Back from Eternity's mysterious chimes.
They come, a fearful crowd,
And gaze with spectral eyes;

179

Before this witness cloud
My spirit silent lies:
No sound is there, yet strange wild echoes thrill
The inmost caverns of my soul, where all seemed waste and still.

Scenes arise before me
Fairer than the light,
Visions hover o'er me
Darker than the night;
While my spirit haileth
Those with fond delight,
Yet at these it quaileth,
Shrouded in affright.
For the past years press me closer round,
And I cannot bear their gaze;
With a brazen fetter I am bound,
While their deep reproachful voices sound
And their piercing eyebeams blaze.
They speak of thoughtless words and wasted hours,
Of hopes forgotten, resolutions broken;
Their breath recalls once bright, now faded flowers,
Their tones bring back the words which sainted lips have spoken.
Again is heard that spirit-wakening bell;
Each stroke is branding deep my heavy heart,
Like some inevitable knell,
Saying, ‘Thou too must soon depart.’
And 'tis a knell! My youth is past,
That very chime hath told me so!
This year hath been the last, the last;
My spring is gone, I know!

180

The sound hath melted o'er the hill,
And all is still!
Again the peal is ringing,
Like angel voices singing,—
‘May there not be
A summer yet for thee?
Without the chilling frosts of spring,
Without the piercing wind,
Without the yet unclothèd spray,
These thou hast left behind!
What though the rainbow fade away?
The light which gave it birth
Is still the same; and e'en the cloud
May bless the thirsty earth.
What though the blossom fall and die?
The flower is not the root;
A summer's sun may ripen yet
The Master's pleasant fruit.
What though by many a sinful fall
Thy garments be defiled?
A Saviour's blood can cleanse them all;
Fear not, thou art His child!
Arise! to follow in His track,
His lowly ones to cheer;
And on an upward path, look back
With every brightening year.
Arise! and on thy future way
His blessing with thee be,
His presence be thy staff and stay
Till thou His glory see.
What though thy heart distrust thy strength?
The way may not be long,

181

And He will bring thee home at length
To learn His own new song.’

Sweet Astley bells! your distant chime,
So tuneful, though so sad,
Speaks of a holier, happier time:
I sigh, and yet am glad.

‘Pray for me.’

When the early morn awaketh,
Veiled in mist, or robed in fire;
When the evening ray forsaketh
Golden cloud and gleaming spire,—
Thy request shall sacred be
In the shrine of memory,
And for thee my prayer shall rise
Far beyond the silent skies.

When the Sabbath calm is sleeping
Like a moonbeam everywhere;
When the solemn feast-day keeping,
Upward float our praise and prayer;
When in holy love and fear
To our Father we draw near,—
Many a wingèd hope for thee
To His ear shall wafted be.

When we hear the loud thought-chorus,
While the Old Year's knell is tolled;

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When the Future looms before us,
And the Past seems all unrolled;
When each moment fleeteth by,
Like a deep mysterious sigh,—
Then, oh then, my heart shall be
Lifted earnestly for thee:

Lifted—that our God may lead thee
All the way that thou shouldst go,
With His daily manna feed thee,
Every needful good bestow;
That the dearest ones to thee
Near and dear to Him may be;
That His smile on thee may rest,
In His presence calmly blest:

Lifted—that our holy Saviour
More and more to thee may show
All the wondrous grace and favour
He hath suffered to bestow;
That His love may be thy shield
In Temptation's battle-field;
And His sympathy thy light
In Affliction's darkest night:

That the Comforter, descending
In His sanctifying power,
Peace and hope and gladness blending,
On thy waiting soul may shower;
That our Triune God may shed
Every blessing on thy head,
Till thou enter in and see
All He hath prepared for thee.

183

On the Death of Captain Allan Gardiner,

The First Missionary to Patagonia.

In desolate wild grandeur all around,
Dark rocky spires are tow'ring to the sky,
While through the caverns echoes far the sound
Of winds, which o'er Antarctic seas sweep fitfully.

The ocean waves with deep and hollow tone
Combat the haughty cliffs in fierce affray,
Then back returning with a sullen moan,
Sink, till again they dash, their warrior spray.

No flowerets spring that barren land to cheer,
No waving trees salute that stormy sky
With graceful bend; scarce grass and herbs appear,
Or aught of greenery, to soothe the wearied eye.

O who in such a dreary clime could dwell?
Who would abide on such a desert shore?
Save the wild natives, who, our sailors tell,
No Saviour know, no Deity supreme adore.

But list awhile! Who breathed that deep-drawn sigh?
Whence came it? Hark again! A voice of prayer,
Mingled with heavenly praises, rose on high,
As with sweet incense hallowing the chilly air.

Alone, no earthly friend or brother near,
A human form lies on that bleak, bleak strand;

184

Sunken his eye, and wan his cheeks appear,
For famine pale has laid on him her withering hand.

Nor food nor water six long weary days
Have passed those pallid lips, yet not a plaint
From him may fall, but notes of joyful praise;
Sustained with bread of life his soul can never faint:

For Jesus whispers comfort to his soul,
And smooths his pillow, though so cold and hard;
He hears no wind, he sees no surges roll,
He only hears his Master, sees his bright reward.

Another sigh, his happy soul hath flown
From its frail dwelling, where so long it lay
Pinioned, his painful toils at length are done,
And angels welcome him to dwell in endless day.

Wherefore left he his lovely native isle?
Wherefore his life, his all thus sacrifice?
Did he for pleasure undertake such toil?
Was it for sordid gold, which men so highly prize?

No! higher motives filled that noble breast;
He sacrified his all from Christian love,
He went to tell of peace and heavenly rest,
To teach those heathen of a gracious God above.

And shall we blame him, who devoted thus
To his great Master's name his freshest days?
Despise that bright example left to us,
And on his memory strive to cast a gloomy haze?

185

Shame, shame on those who dare aspersions fling
On Gardiner's honoured name! They know it's true
Right well he served his Saviour and his King;
And they who love the Master, love the servant too.

But now he rests in peace, his labours past;
Nothing can vex that noble spirit more,
For he hath gained his distant port at last,
The waves have only carried him to that blest shore.

No laurels bloomed on that pale dying brow,
No earthly honours clustered round that bed;
But victor-wreaths of life encircle now,
And a bright crown adorns, that mission martyr's head!

‘Thank God.’

‘For nine-and-twenty years the rainbow-pinioned Spring
Hath kissed the young lips of her smiling flowers;
For nine-and-twenty years hath Autumn's golden ring
Encircled the fair fruit in all her bowers.

‘Yes, nine-and-twenty years have darkly, sadly passed
Since last the light of heaven 't was mine to see;
All aid has failed! Thy skill my only hope, my last!
Good Hofrath, can there yet be hope for me?’

Say, hath a passing angel left in that kind face
The mirrored image of his own sweet smile,
To the great good man's reverend beauty adding grace?
It may be so! listen! he speaks awhile.

186

‘There is yet hope for thee! If God vouchsafe to bless,
Thou yet again may'st see the blessèd summer light!
Though there's a thorny hedge of pain, yet may access
Be gained thee to thy Eden of glad sight!’

The time is come, the operation o'er; yet he must wait
One moment longer, with unopened eye,—
The Hofrath writes (oh, what will be his fate?),
Now, blind one, read!—‘Thank God!’ his joyous cry.

What words may tell the unknown joy of that glad heart?
Words cannot paint a bliss so deeply felt;
Like flakes of spring-snow, like the lightning's passing dart,
Half-formed in glowing happiness they melt.

‘Thank God!’ Yes, after nine-and-twenty years of night,
At length awakes for him the radiant day,
And the first word which he doth read with glad new sight
Is ‘Thank God!’ Thanks, praise to Him alway!

E'en had the first-seen sunbeam not upborne his mind
In praise to Him who said, ‘Let there be light,’
The Hofrath's beautiful device must surely find
A deep response, and heavenward turn his sight.

It was a lovely thought, to place the sweet-toned lyre
At once within the joy-unnervèd hand;
May blessings rest on him, and may the angel choir
Around him breathe the songs of their bright Fatherland.

An incident at Grafrath, related by a patient of the skilful oculist, Dr. de Leuve.

187

The Maidens of England

ON THE PRESENTATION OF A BIBLE TO THEIR PRINCESS ROYAL.

Ere the pathless ocean waters
Bear thee far from England's shore,
Come we, England's youthful daughters,
Warmly greeting thee once more.

Rarest jewels, lustre flinging,
Grace thy royal diadem;
Yet we come, an offering bringing
Richer than its richest gem.

While with prayerful love unspoken,
Princess! glows each maiden heart,
Deign to take this sacred token,
Brightest lamp and surest chart.

May its holy precepts guide thee
In each hour of joy or sadness;
Yet may he who stands beside thee
Share with thee unfading gladness.

Ever on thy pathway shining,
Living stars 'mid earthly night,
May its peace and grace entwining
Gird thee with a robe of light.

Rose of England! fragrance breathing,
To thy far new home depart,
Round thy early bloom enwreathing
All the love of England's heart.

188

Be thy gladness ever vernal
'Mid the wintry scenes below,
Till a crown of life eternal.
Gleams upon thy royal brow!

Father, be Thou ever near her!
Saviour, fill her with Thy love!
Let Thy constant presence cheer her,
Joy-imparting Holy Dove!

‘No, not a Star.’

(ANSWER TO A REMARK.)

No, not a star! that is a name too beautiful and bright
For any earthly lay to wear, in this our lingering night;
But 'mid the broken waters of our ever-restless thought,
My verse should be an answering gleam from higher radiance caught;
That when through dark o'erarching boughs of sorrow, doubt, and sin,
The glorious Star of Bethlehem upon the flood looks in,
Its tiny trembling ray may bid some downcast vision turn
To that enkindling Light, for which all earthly shadows yearn.

No, not a rainbow! though upon the tearful cloud it trace
Sweet messages of sparing love, of changeless truth and grace.
The daughter of its meekest hue I would my verse might prove,
The leaf-veiled violet, that wins so many a childish love;

189

For little hearts no wounding thorn or poison-cup to bear,
But pleasant fragrance and delight to greet them everywhere.
I grieve not though each blossom fall with swiftly ripening spring,
If o'er one eager face a smile of gladness it may fling.

No, not a fountain! though it seem to spread white angelwings,
And soar aloft in spirit guise, no gentle help it brings;
It lives for its own loveliness alone, then seeks once more
The chilly bosom of the rock it slumbered in before.
Oh, be my verse a hidden stream which silently may flow
Where drooping leaf and thirsty flower in lonely valleys grow;
Till, blending with the broad bright stream of sanctified endeavour,
God's glory be its ocean home, the end it seeketh ever!

191

Miscellaneous Poems.

193

The Queen of the Sea.

O Sea, calm, sleeping Sea! awake, and tell
What o'er thee hath cast this soothing spell?

‘Brightly the young moon is beaming
From her purple throne,
On my waveless breast is gleaming
Radiance all her own.
I have hushed each booming billow,
For her peerless royal brow
Resteth on my glistening pillow
Like a sleeping angel now.’

O Sea, glad and playful Sea! what meanest thou?
What do thy white-winged wavelets carol now?

‘Merrily they all are singing,
For with golden hand,
Silver fetters she is flinging
O'er my fairy band.
'Neath them blithely are they dancing,
And her jewels rare and bright
In their waving crests are glancing—
Liquid diamonds of light.’

O Sea, wild, raging Sea! what horrors dire
Have raised thy maniac wrath, thy frenzied ire?

194

‘Seest thou not the lightning flashing
From yon lurid cloud?
Fiercely are my billows dashing,
Foaming, roaring loud,
For the frowning sky is veiling
Darkly o'er their beauteous Queen:
Fury mingleth with their wailing
Till her face again be seen.’

Two Points of View.

Terrible waves! In fierce, unearthly chorus
Ye threaten the frail vessel to entomb;
Still darker than the fearful storm-cloud o'er us,
Your yawning gulfs of death-portending gloom.

Beautiful waves! In joyous freedom dancing,
Ye burst like living things upon the strand;
Your snowy crests in the pure sunlight glancing,
Flash like a vision bright of fairy-land.

Oh, such are trials! All Earth's sons and daughters
Feel in them awful messengers of ire,
More dark and dread than ocean's troubled waters;
Death, and not Life, their horrors aye inspire.

Not so in Heaven! On that shore of gladness
Each past grief seems a blessing, and each pain
Hath lost the midnight hues of earthborn sadness,—
The once-dark waves gleam bright—each loss appears a gain.

195

Morning Song.

[_]

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

The dawning day is beaming,
The long night flies away,
The gates of light are gleaming,
Oped by the rosy ray.
Thou beauteous light of earth, all hail!
Let not thy cheering presence fail!

Above all goodness dwelleth;
Where, at the fount of light,
The angel-chorus swelleth,
There it is ever bright!
Though here in darksome vale we stray,
'Tis lighted by that glorious ray.

Thy light and blessing sending
From Thine own radiant side,
While here our dark paths wending,
Be Thou our guard and guide.
Lift up the brightness of Thy face!
Forsake not, Lord, Thy chosen race!

Evening Song.

[_]

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

Evening now is closing
Over vale and hill;
Peacefully reposing,
All the world is still.

196

But the brooklet, pouring
Where the tall rocks close,
With its restless roaring
Ever, ever flows.

Evening is not bringing
To its waters peace,
And no sweet bell ringing,
Bids its turmoil cease.

In its restless striving
I behold my own,—
True repose deriving
From my God alone.

Peace.

A shout of gladness is heard afar;
They are greeting a glowing triumphal car;
And the nations bend to the gentle sway
Of white-robed Peace, with her olive spray.
She is come! and the tongues of ten thousand bells
Re-echo the shout through our island dells.

She is come! Like a star from the darksome wave
Arising, o'er many an unknown grave;
Like the moon, when her sad eclipse is past,
Her silver fetters o'er earth doth cast;
Like the sun, dispelling with ardent might
The gloomy spectres and shades of night.

197

She is come! Like the falling of cool, sweet dew,
Like a buried flower which Spring doth renew;
Like the burst of a rivulet's laughing waves
From the death-like glacier's awful caves;
As a pearl gleams forth from its dark, rough shell,
She is come! and her song is War's funeral knell.

She is come! with her lyre all newly strung
For the lay which the Bethlehem angels sung:
Glad harmony dwells in its every tone,
Triumphantly ruling the song alone;
For discord hath melted before her sway,
Like as snow-wreath yields to the warm spring ray.

She is come! with her diamond-gleaming zone,
To bind Earth's children before her throne,
And her flowing mantle, which every trace
Of War's wild fury shall soon erase;
Her golden crown is returning wealth,
And her balmy breath is the nation's health.

She is come! with blessings for each and all,
For the rich and poor, for the great and small,
For our own loved Queen, in her royal chair,
For the poor man toiling for daily fare,
For the senate-hall, for the busy mart,
For the striving mind, for the loving heart.

She is come! As an angel from Heaven above,
With her smile of joy and her look of love;
Each grim foreboding to chase away,
Each tenderly anxious fear to allay;

198

To bid the death-thunder of War to cease:
Then hail to the long, long sighed for Peace!

She is come! But e'en 'neath her radiant sway
There are those who sorrow each weary day;
Who weep for the noble, the loved, the brave,
That are resting now in an Eastern grave:
Then oh! for them let our prayers ascend,
To the orphan's Father, the widow's Friend.

She is come! Then our anthems shall loudly rise
To the gracious Ruler of earth and skies,
Who hath poured on us from His chalice of love
A sparkling drop of the Peace above;
And hath stilled the dark billows of War with a word!
Yes! our grateful songs shall be widely heard.

She is come! But oh! she may pass away,
Like the fleeting brightness of April's ray,
And War's fierce tempest arise once more!
Then in faith let us ‘onward and upward’ soar,
Where the many jarrings of earth shall cease,
In the glorious reign of the Prince of Peace.

Fragments.

I wander in fancy far away
To scenes of many a summer day,
Beautiful even now
In the pale and wan November ray,
When Nature lays her cooling hand
On the hot and aching brow,

199

And quiets the throbbing heart with a touch,
And whispers much,
In her own dear musical tone,
Of rest and calm,
And peace and balm,
Till the heart is tuned to her own sweet psalm,
And feels no more alone.
Oh, the healing she has brought!
Oh, the cures that she has wrought!
Only engage her as nurse and physician,
And let her fulfil her miraculous mission,
And you will find
That she leaves behind
All the wonders of homœopathy.
Oh! I could tell,
For I know so well,
How the unstrung nerves are tuned again,
And the load rolls off from the tirèd brain,
And strength comes back to the languid frame,
And existence hardly seems the same.
Her process is surer far and shorter,
When out of reach of bricks and mortar!
When all her gentle remedies
Are brought to bear, till the work is done.

Oh! give to me
A pierless and paradeless sea,
With a shore as God made it, grand and free,
And not a mere triumph of masonry;
Where the thundering shocks,
And the Titan play
Of the wild white spray,

200

Which dies on the shingly beach,
With a golden reach
Of fair smooth sand,
Laid by the hand
Of the lulling tide,
Inviting many a stroll or ride.
Oh, for the pure and lovely shell!
Oh, for the crimson frond!
Witness of all fair forms that dwell
In the marvellous deep below and beyond,
Where living flowers
From mermaids' bowers,
Many a living star,
Many a crystal, many a spar,
Where Nature distributes all her treasures,
And all her special sea-side pleasures.

Oh! give me the rocks of Ilfracombe,
With their witchery of gleam and gloom,
With the crystal pools in the tide-swept cave,
Where myriad fairy forests wave,
And the delicate fringes of crimson and green,
Purple and amber, ruby and rose,
With snowy gleaming shells between,
And marvellous forms of life are seen,
While the musical tide still ebbs and flows;
Where not a step but brings to view
Something exquisite, something rare,
Something marvellously fair,
Always beautiful, always new.

201

My heart is wandering still
At its strange and wayward will.
Oh, for the Glen of the Waters' Meet,
Where the merry Lyn leaps down so
To that loveliest vale below,
And hastens to join the Channel flow;
Where the Lynton cliffs, without a frown,
Majestically crown
This mingling of sublime and sweet.
And oh, for the mighty roar
At the foot of Penmaenmawr!
Or an autumn storm
On the Greater Orme,
Where the giant breakers hurl their spray
At the mountain's mighty breast,
And the wild wind, mingling in the fray,
Seizes and whirls it high and away
Over the proud rock's crest;
While the maddened waves
Rush into the caves
With thunder and growl, and rush back again,
As if the assault had been all in vain,
But only to gather in awful might
For a tenfold struggle of fiercer fight.
Who would have time for a thought of care,
Or a fit of the blues, if standing there!
Away! away! to the bracing North,
To the grand old seas
Of the Hebrides,
To the sunny Clyde, or the silver Forth,
Purple heather above, and shadowy loch below,
Golden glory of furze, and a far-off wealth of snow,

202

Violet peaks afar, and dark green pines anear,
And long bright evenings so soft and clear,
And concert halls of birdies sweet
Trill and carol so blithely meet;—
Treasures untold, their myriad gleam
Is far beyond a poet's dream.

The Wandering Sunbeam.

It wandered far, that Sunbeam bright,
To mortal eyes of purest light,—
And, gladdening all o'er whom it beamed,
A seraph's smile of joy it seemed.
But farther yet it longed to soar,
Where earthly darkness dims no more,
To visit that abode of light,
Too dazzling far for human sight.
On glowing wing through space it flew,
Till Heaven's own glory was in view,
And through the pearly gates it passed,
Which only light, not shadow, cast.
Then burst upon the wondering Ray
The radiance fair of perfect Day.
A beauteous seraph passed along,
The Sunbeam heard the thrilling song;
But quickly ceased the gladsome lay,
The swift-winged seraph fled away!
What might that haste, that strange fear mean?
What dreaded spectre had he seen?
‘An earth-born cloud of darksome Night
Hath dared to scale the walls of light;

203

O'er yon fair hill a shade is thrown,
Which only in those worlds is known
Which far from Heaven's pure boundaries lie,
To Chaos' gloomy realm more nigh.’
Thus spake he to a marvelling throng,
But gazed not on the Sunbeam long:
An angel's eye was far too pure
E'en that fair Sunray to endure.
Nor long remained it there to tell
In what strange darkness Earth must dwell,
Too gross with beams of heavenly birth
To mix, yet to return to Earth
Too glorious, since its joyful gaze
Had met those all-effulgent rays.
Half way to Earth it flew, and there,
While yet its wing Heaven's radiance bare,
It rested, and became a star,
To tell Earth's children from afar,
How infinitely pure and bright
Is Heaven's eternal shadeless light.

May Day.

O haste, O haste to the fields away!
For dawneth now the month of May;
O leave the city's crowded street,
And haste ye now sweet May to greet.

For May is come on fairy wings,
And thousand beauties with her brings;
The fairest month of all the year,
Oh, well can she the sad heart cheer.

204

Nature her jewelry displays,
Unfolds her gems to meet our gaze;
Bright leaves and buds of emerald hue,
Forget-me-nots of sapphire blue.

The pearly lily's drooping bells,
Listen! a tale it sweetly tells:
‘If God so clothe the lilies fair,
Much more may ye trust in His care.’

The turquoise gentianella bright,
The shining king-cup's golden light,
Carnation's ruby hues behold,
And silvery daisy set with gold.

Of these we'll twine a garland gay,
Meet for the brow of beauteous May;
And see, they gain a brighter hue
By glittering drops of diamond dew.

Now hark! what sound so sweetly floats
Upon the breeze? The cuckoo's notes!
How far they come to welcome May,
And pour for us the simple lay!

Forest Voices.

The forest hath its voices,
Whose sweetness aye rejoices,
Or soothes the spirit wondrously;
Borne on their leafy wings,
They tell of quiet things
And mingle in strange harmony.

205

There is a murmuring song,
A cadence soft and long,
Evoking dreams of still delight;
There is a clarion note,
Whose blithesome echoes float,
Chasing the darkling spells of grief and night.

There is a whispering sound
Within the forest-bound,
Telling the heart of things unseen;
That nameless holy thrill
Passeth o'er vale and hill
And through the dark and lone ravine.

It is a harp sublime
With ever-varying chime,
Awakening feelings ever new;
For, tuned by Him who made
The all-harmonious shade,
Each forest-voice is sweet and true.

The Shower.

On every budding leaf and flower,
The sweet, soft rain of spring
Comes down in a soft and gentle shower,
Like a whispering angel-wing.

The shower hath bow'd the proud red rose
With many a fragrant tear,
It hath wakened the harebell's long repose,
The wanderer now to cheer.

206

It hath given the woodbine strength to cling
To the strong elm's rugged bough;
And the wakeful pimpernel folds its wing,
And quietly slumbers now.

It hath watered the seeds in their cold dark bed,
And they burst through the prisoning clay.
To the lingering buds it hath gently said,
‘Unfold to the bright sun-ray.’

Among the leaves of the forest-tree
Its gentle footsteps go,
And they murmur thanks so pleasantly
In an anthem soft and low.

Showers there are for the thirsty soul,
A sweet and refreshing dew,
The Spirit who makes the wounded whole,
And the evil heart makes new.

He will teach the trembling one to cling
To an Arm of love and might;
And the earth-stained soul 'neath His holy wing
Shall again be pure and white.

The weary heart with its wild unrest
He can hush to a trustful calm;
To the spirit crushed and sorely pressed
He comes with His healing balm.

207

He comes to the soul in its sin-wrought tomb,
And rent are the chains of death!
Then His own sweet graces awake and bloom
Beneath His living breath.

Yes! the Spirit shall teach the heart to sing,
And shall tune its long silent lyre,
And He who shall meeten it prainse to bring
In the sinless, white-robed choir.

Come then, O Spirit, as once of yore,
Come in Thy quickening might!
Come, on Thy waiting Church to pour
Thy life, Thy grace, Thy light.

Tiny Tokens.

I

The murmur of a waterfall
A mile away,
The rustle when a robin lights
Upon a spray,
The lapping of a lowland stream
On dipping boughs,
The sound of grazing from a herd
Of gentle cows,
The echo from a wooded hill
Of cuckoo's call,
The quiver through the meadow grass
At evening fall:—

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Too subtle are these harmonies
For pen and rule,
Such music is not understood
By any school:
But when the brain is overwrought,
It hath a spell,
Beyond all human skill and power,
To make it well.

II

The memory of a kindly word
For long gone by,
The fragrance of a fading flower
Sent lovingly,
The gleaming of a sudden smile
Or sudden tear,
The warmer pressure of the hand,
The tone of cheer,
The hush that means ‘I cannot speak,
But I have heard!’
The note that only bears a verse
From God's own Word:—
Such tiny things we hardly count
As ministry;
The givers deeming they have shown
Scant sympathy:
But when the heart is everwrought,
Oh, who can tell
The power of such tiny things
To make it well!

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April.

O the wealth of pearly blossom, O the woodland's emerald gleam!
O the welcome, welcome sunshine on the diamond-sparkling stream!
O the carol from the hawthorn and the trill from dazzling blue!
O the glory of the spring-time, making all things bright and new!
O the rosy eve's surrender
To the Easter moonlight tender!
O the early morning splendour,
Fresh and fragrant, cool and clear,
In the rising of the year!
O the gladness of the children after all the dismal days,
In the freedom and the beauty and the heart-rejoicing rays!
Do we chill the gleeful spirit, check the pulses bounding fast,
By the mournful doubt suggested: ‘Ah, but, darling, will it last?’

Though we know there may be tempests, and we know there will be showers,
Yet we know they only hasten summer's richer crown of flowers.
Blossom leads to golden fruitage, bursting bud to foliage soon;
April's pleasant gleam shall strengthen to the glorious glow of June.

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April leads to joyous May-time,
With its ever-lengthening day-time:
This again to joyous hay-time,
When the harvest-home is near,
In the zenith of the year.
So we only tell the children of the sunnier days in store,
Of the treasures and the beauties that shall open more and more.
So the silver carol rises, for the winter-time is past!
When the summer days are coming, need we ask if spring shall last?

O the gladness of the spirit, when the true and Only Light
Pours in radiant resplendence, making all things new and bright!
When the love of Jesus shineth in its overcoming power,
When the secret sweet communion hallows every passing hour.
O the calm and happy resting,
Free from every fear molesting!
O the Christ-victorious breasting
Of the tempter's varied art,
In the spring-time of the heart!
O the freedom and the fervour after all the faithless days!
O the ever-new thanksgiving and the ever-flowing praise!
Shall we tempt the gaze from Jesus, and a doubting shadow cast,
Satan's own dark word suggesting by the whisper ‘“If” it last’?

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Though we know there must be trials and there will be tears below,
Yet we know His glorious purpose, and His promises we know!
Only ask — ‘What saith the Master?’ and believe His word alone,
That ‘from glory unto glory’ He shall lead, shall change His own.
Ever more and more bestowing,
Love and joy in riper glowing,
Faith increasing, graces growing—
Such His promises to you!
He is faithful, He is true!
Each Amen becomes an anthem, for we know He will fulfil
All the purpose of His goodness, all the splendour of His will.
Only trust the living Saviour, only trust Him all the way,
And your springtide path shall brighten to the perfect summer day!

The Song of a Summer Stream.

A few months ago
I was singing through the snow,
Though the dead brown boughs gave no hope of summer shoots,
And my persevering fall
Seemed to be no use at all,
For the hard, hard frost would not let me reach the roots.

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Then the mists hung chill
All along the wooded hill,
And the cold, sad fog through my lonely dingles crept;
I was glad I had no power
To awake one tender flower
To a sure, swift doom! I would rather that it slept.

Still I sang all alone
In the sweet old summer tone,
For the strong white ice could not hush me for a day;
Though no other voice was heard
But the bitter breeze that whirred
Past the gaunt, grey trunks on its wild and angry way.

So the dim days sped,
While everything seemed dead,
And my own poor flow seemed the only living sign;
And the keen stars shone
When the freezing night came on,
From the far, far heights, all so cold and crystalline.

A few months ago
I was singing through the snow!
But now the blessed sunshine is filling all the land,
And the memories are lost
Of the winter fog and frost,
In the presence of the Summer with her full and glowing hand.

Now the woodlark comes to drink
At my cool and pearly brink,

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And the ladyfern is bending to kiss my rainbow foam;
And the wild-rose buds entwine
With the dark-leaved bramble-vine,
And the centuried oak is green around the bright-eyed squirrel's home.

O the full and glad content,
That my little song is blent
With the all-melodious mingling of the choristers around!
I no longer sing alone
Through a chill surrounding moan,
For the very air is trembling with its wealth of summer sound.

Though the hope scemed long deferred,
Ere the south wind's whisper heard
Gave a promise of the passing of the weary winter days,
Yet the blessing was secure,
For the summer time was sure
When the lonely songs are gathered in the mighty choir of praise.

An Autumn Holiday.

I don't want to think about ‘the meaning,’
I don't want to think fine thoughts at all!
On the great heather cushions leaning,
I'm watching the sunset, that is all!

Why should I puzzle and tease with questions,
When Nature shows me her picture-book?

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I will leave her to make her own suggestions,
And just do nothing but sit and look.

I have finished the work of a busy season,
And I want to quiet a busy brain,
Now is the time for rest (in reason),
Before I begin a new campaign.

And oh it is rest, and most delicious,
To know that I need not speak a word;
By only the midges (most officious!)
Could anything here be overheard.

Isn't it nice! The bracken browning
Is almost gold in the autumn glow,
And the silver birch, with the same fair crowning,
Gleams like a streak of glistening snow.

The sweet south air is so soft and quiet,
Stealing along through the fern to me,
After the most uncivil riot
Of his cousin from over the western sea.

The broad blaze hides all the fresh-foldings,
Under the flood of sunset light,
And touches anew all the quarry mouldings
Of the eastern hills with its gilding bright.

The clouds are hanging a cool grey curtain,
Up in the north till the sun gets low;
Only biding their time, and certain
Then to flaunt in a crimson show.

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Slowly, slowly the sun is sinking,
Silence and glory are everywhere!
No more writing, and no more thinking!
Only rest in the golden air!

The Song of Love.

I passed along the meadows fair,
The lark's loud carol filled the air,
A living song up-soaring.
A wanderer passed along, and sang
A song that all the lark's outrang,
His very soul outpouring.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’

I passed along the forest green,
And heard a song ring out between
The leafy aisles o'erarching.
The music filled the silent shade,
The singer passed through glen and glade,
With steady footstep marching.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’

I lingered by the river side,
And watched a tiny vessel glide,
And saw the white sails glisten:

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The helm was in the wanderer's hand,
The same clear music reached the strand,
And bid my whole soul listen.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’

I passed the quiet churchyard bound,
And stood beside a new-made mound
In silent sunset glory;
The flowering grasses, fresh and fair,
Waved lightly in the golden air,
And softly told the story.
‘He resteth in his blessèd home,
Whence nothing now can sever,
Still singing, though no more to roam,
His song of love for ever.’

The Awakening.

So it has come to you, dear,
Come so soon!
Come in the sunshine early,
Come in the morning pearly,
Not in the blaze of noon.

Yes, it has come to you, dear,
Strange and sweet;
Come ere the merry May-time
Melts to the glowing hay-time,
Hushed in the sultry heat.

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Come—with mysterious shadow,
Weird and new,—
Come with a magic lustre
Hung on the shining cluster
Ripening fast for you.

Come! and the exquisite minor,
Rich and deep,
Swells with Æolian blending
Chords of the spirit, ending
Boyhood's enchanted sleep.

Sleep that is past for ever!
Is it gain?
What does the waking seem like?
Love that is only dream-like
Sings not a truthful strain.

Hearts that have roused and listened
Never more,
(Though they may miss the crossed tones,
Though they may mourn the lost tones,)
Sleep as they slept before.

Come! and the great transition
Now is past!
Never again the boy-life,
Only the pain—and joy-life,
More of the first than last.

Come! and they do not guess it,
Why such a change!

218

Why should the mirth and riot
Tone into manly quiet!
Is it not passing strange?

Come! 'Tis a night of wonder
At this call.
Characters cabalistic,
Writings all dim and mystic
Tremble upon the wall.

Come! am I glad or sorry?
Wait and see!
Wait for God's silent moulding,
Wait for His full unfolding,
Wait for the days to be.

The Poet's Zenith.

Night is heavy on the valley where the river mist is chill,
Heavy, where the cloud pavilion closes round the silent hill;
Every tiny light that glimmered from the windows near and far,
One by one in sudden darkness has vanished like a lonely star.
All but one, and that is shining where the midnight air creeps in,
Cooling with its clammy touch a burning brow and fingers thin;
Brow inscribed by graving tool of thought in life's deep colours dipped,
Fingers that are resting proudly on unfinished manuscript.

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‘Finished! 'Tis my best, I take it,—best that bears my name as yet;
I am weary, but 'tis worth it, now my signature is set.
How the closing verses thrilled me! seemed that they were hardly mine,
Flashing up in bright succession at my summons line by line.
It has been as though my spirit leapt beyond herself, and left
Half her being yet entangled in a sombre earthly weft,
While her essence soared unfearing upward to the Infinite,
With a new and sudden power, with a new and sudden light.
Year by year have many listened to the truths I sought to teach,
But the work this night sees ended, many more shall surely reach.
It is farther, farther reaching, fond ideals nearing more
Than the last, yet that was stronger than the one that came before.
Finished! but I know my power, know that I have more to say,
Know that better work and deeper shall be done another day.’

Was it so? The hair grew greyer, but the eye retained its light;
Year by year his shining fire-notes fell into the human night,
And his audience grew larger, more and more the souls he stirred,
Till the Poet's name had risen to become a household word.

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Yet a whisper rose and mingled with the shoutings of his fame:
‘This or that is splendid, adding lustre to a lustrous name,
Some for tenderness and sweetness, some for favour and for force;
All his later works are fine, and so we read them—oh, of course!
But the focus of his power, in the poem we love best,
Stands alone for depth and beauty, far outweighing all the rest.
There's a vividness, a glory, something felt though not defined,
Making one forget the poet in that light and truth combined.
Not an old man, and experience adding treasure for his mint!
Yet his golden coin seems bearing less imperial imprint.
It is heresy, we know it, for his verse is all so good,
But why does he never write as once he did and surely could?’

Well, the fatal whisper reached him, floated like a seed of grief,
Thistle-down, that soon upspringing, wounded him with thorny leaf;
Slowly, surely, came the knowledge that the springtide of his power
All unknown had reached its zenith in the rapture of an hour;
That the ebbing and the flowing never reached the shining mark
Where the wave of life rose highest in that midnight still and dark.

221

Mischief Making.

I.

Only a tiny dropping
From a tiny hidden leak;
But the flow is never stopping,
And the flaw is far to seek.

Only some trickling water,
Nothing at all at first;
But it grows to a valley-slaughter,
For the reservoir has burst!

The wild flood once in motion,
Who shall arrest its course?
As well restrain the ocean
As that ungoverned force!

Mourn for the desolations,
And help the ruined men,
Till next spring's fair creations
Make the valley smile again.

Help with a free, pure pity,
For your hands in this are clean,
You dwelt in the far-off city,
With many a mile between.

You did not watch the flowing
Of the treacherous, trickling rill;
You did not aid the growing
Of the tiny rifts in the hill.

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What if you had? I leave it,
It is too dark a thought;
How could the heart conceive it?
How came it, all unsought?

II.

A look of great affliction,
As you tell what one told you,
With a feeble contradiction,
Or a ‘hope it is not true!’

A story quite too meagre
For naming any more,
Only your friend seems eager
To know a little more.

No doubt of explanation,
If all was known, you see;
One might get information
From Mrs. A. or B.

Only some simple queries
Passed on from tongue to tongue,
Though the ever-growing series
Has out of nothing sprung.

Only a faint suggestion,
Only a doubtful hint,
Only a leading question
With a special tone or tint.

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Only a low ‘I wonder!’
Nothing unfair at all;
But the whisper grows to thunder,
And a scathing bolt may fall;

And a good ship is dismasted,
And hearts are like to break,
And a Christian life is blasted,
For a scarcely-guessed mistake!

The Lorely.

Ah, where are the echoes of gladness
Which dwell in my listening mind?
What meaneth the whisper of sadness,
Like the moan of the autumn wind?

I am chained by an often told story,
Come down from the olden time
When fairydom saw its glory,
A haunting, saddening chime.

The air is still and darkling,
And silently flows the Rhine;
The mountain peaks are sparkling,
Where sunset rays yet shine.

A strangely beauteous maiden
Sits high on the grim rock there
Her arms are with rich gems laden,
She combeth her golden hair.

224

With a golden comb she is combing,
And sings an enchanted song,
And wondrously through the gloaming
That melody floats along.

Then a wild weird sorrow amazeth
The boatman in gliding skiff,
While upward alone he gazeth
He sees not the fatal cliff.

The wave-bells a knell are ringing,
For the Rhine his prey hath won,
And that with her syren-singing
Hath the Sprite of the Lorely done.

For Denmark, ho!

For Denmark, ho!
Is the cry, we know,
And the shout,—Arise, arise!
They are struggling long
'Gainst might and wrong,
The valiant weak, with the craven strong,
Their homes the invader's prize.

A fair fresh Rose,
From her northern snows,
Is worn on England's heart,
And shall England see
Her parent tree
Crushed by malice? It shall not be,—
Ours be the helper's part.

225

Let a voice of might
For the just and right
Resound o'er sea and land;
Let the olive fade
Ere we fail in aid,
And the far-seen gleams of a half-drawn blade
Flash from our ready hand.

My Singing Lesson.

ABSTRACT.

Here beginneth—chapter the first of a series,
To be followed by manifold notes and queries;
So novel the queries, so trying the notes,
I think I must have the queerest of throats,
And most notable dulness, or else long ago
The Signor had given up teaching, I trow.
I wonder if ever before he has taught
A pupil who can't do a thing as she ought!

The voice has machinery—(now to be serious),
Invisible, delicate, strange, and mysterious.
A wonderful organ-pipe firstly we trace,
Which is small in a tenor and wide in a bass;
Below an Æolian harp is provided,
Through whose fairy-like fibres the air will be guided.
Above is an orifice, larger or small
As the singer desires to rise or to fall;
Expand and depress it to deepen your roar,
But raise and contract it when high you would soar.

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Alas for the player, the pipes, and the keys,
If the bellows give out an inadequate breeze!
So this is the method of getting up steam,
The one motive power for song or for scream:
Slowly and deeply, and just like a sigh,
Fill the whole chest with a mighty supply;
Through the mouth only, and not through the nose,
And the lungs must condense it ere farther it goes
(How to condense it, I really don't know,
And very much hope the next lesson will show).
Then, forced from each side, through the larynx it comes,
And reaches the region of molars and gums,
And half of the sound will be ruined or lost
If by any impediment here it is crossed.
On the soft of the palate beware lest it strike,
The effect would be such as your ear would not like.
And arch not the tongue, or the terrified note
Will straightway be driven back into the throat.
Look well to your trigger, nor hasten to pull it:
Once hear the report and you've done with your bullet.
In the feminine voice there are registers three,
Which upper, and middle, and lower must be;
And each has a sounding-board all of its own,
The chest, lips, and head, to reverberate tone.
But in cavities nasal it never must ring,
Or no one is likely to wish you to sing.
And if on this subject you waver in doubt,
By listening and feeling the truth will come out.
The lips, by the bye, will have plenty to do
In forming the vowels Italian and true;
Eschewing the English, uncertain and hideous,
With an O and a U that are simply amphibious

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In flexible freedom let both work together,
And the under one must not be stiffened like leather.

Here endeth the substance of what I remember,
Indited this twenty-sixth day of November.

To the Choir of Llangryffyth.

(OR WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN.)

We nowadays hear of all sorts of progression
In science or politics, custom or view,
In business, or fashion. Perhaps the precession
Of equinoxes has something to do
With the rate at which we are going. 'T is true
That progress is now and then retrogression,
And the new is the old when the old is the new.
So they breakfast at one and they lunch at four,
And are sitting at dinner at half-past nine,
And go to bed when the night is o'er,
And get up when the day begins to decline.
If they only progress in the same direction,
A few more years will bring it all right;
They will rise in the morning, not dreading detection,
And return to the habit of sleeping at night.

Though the world of fashion progresses so fleetly,
The church at Llangryffyth outdoes it completely;
For at twelve o'clock, nay, ten minutes past,
By a watch that was certainly not too fast,
The choir exhorted our souls to awake,
And slumber and sleepiness off to shake,

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And then and there from our beds to rise,
Exactly as if we were rubbing our eyes.
A little bit later were more apropos,
For afternoon drowsiness lazy and slow
Might make an excuse for a timely suggestion.
Then, further, the sun was brought into the question,
As if he were rising at that time of day,
Instead of completing the half of his way.
Nor these incongruities only appeared:
We thought that good Welshmen the Sabbath revered,
And that ‘daily duties’ aside were laid
That respect to our Holy Day might be paid;
Resting, not ‘running’ the trodden ways
Of the cares and business of other days.
But here at Llangryffyth the choir advise,
With the Fourth Commandment plain under their eyes,
To ‘awake’ (ten minutes past twelve!) ‘with the sun,’
And our ‘daily stage of duty run.’
What would the good old Bishop have said
(Who sang the sweet verses upon his bed,
Day by day as the morning broke,
And the busy week-day world awoke)
Of the common sense of those who bring
Such meaningless praise to the Heavenly King!
O choir of Llangryffyth, your office high
Is to ‘teach and admonish,’ and edify,—
To wield an influence deep and strong,
The heart to touch and the soul to raise,—
In God's own temple to lift the song,
To bring a tribute of holy praise
Before the Lord, who entrusts to you
His gift of music, so high and true!

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Be it yours the preacher's words to meet,
He choosing wisely, ye singing sweet
Of the bright inheritance kept above,
Of the Living Water, the Fount of love.
May He who gave you voice and skill
So tune your hearts that ye may indeed
Your ministry of song fulfil,
And ‘with understanding’ His praises lead.

P.S.—It might be as well if the whole congregation
Could join in the Canticles' grand adoration,
But the few that try at your speed, you will find,
Are speedily distanced and left behind.
It might be as well for the Kyrie to bear
Some slight resemblance to penitent prayer;
Not tripping it off in cheerful repeat
To a pretty tune with a lively beat.
It might be as well in the hymns if we could
Take breath where the writers intended we should,
Not hunting and racing the sense to death
By aiming at singing a verse in a breath.

The morning text—Pet. i. 5: ‘An inheritance reserved.’

The evening text—Rev. xxii. 17: ‘Let him take the Water of Life.’

The Turned Lesson.

‘I thought I knew it!’ she said,
‘I thought I had learnt it quite!’

230

But the gentle Teacher shook her head,
With a grave yet loving light
In the eyes that fell on the upturned face,
As she gave the book
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

‘I thought I knew it!’ she said;
And a heavy tear fell down,
As she turned away with bending head,
Yet not for reproof or frown,
Not for the lesson to learn again,
Or the play-hour lost;—
It was something else that gave the pain.

She could not have put it in words,
But the Teacher understood,
As God understands the chirp of the birds
In the depth of an autumn wood.
And a quiet touch on the reddening cheek
Was quite enough;
No need to question, no need to speak.

Then the gentle voice was heard,
‘Now I will try you again!’
And the lesson was mastered,—every word!
Was it not worth the pain?
Was it not kinder the task to turn,
Than to let it pass,
As a lost, lost leaf that she did not learn?

Is it not often so,
That we only learn in part,

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And the Master's testing-time may show
That it was not quite ‘by heart’?
Then He gives, in His wise and patient grace,
That lesson again
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

Only, stay by His side
Till the page is really known,
It may be we failed because we tried
To learn it all alone.
And now that He would not let us lose
One lesson of love
(For He knows the loss)—can we refuse?

But oh! how could we dream
That we knew it all so well?
Reading so fluently, as we deem,
What we could not even spell!
And oh! how could we grieve once more
That patient One
Who has turned so many a task before?

That waiting One, who now
Is letting us try again;
Watching us with the patient brow
That bore the wreath of pain;
Thoroughly teaching what He would teach,
Line upon line,
Thoroughly doing His work in each.

Then let our hearts ‘be still,’
Though our task is turned to-day.

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Oh let Him teach us what He will,
In His own gracious way,
Till, sitting only at Jesu's feet,
As we learn each line,
The hardest is found all clear and sweet!

Leaning over the Waterfall.

[_]

A young lady, aged 20, fell over the rocks at the Swallow Waterfall in the summer of 1873, and was lost to sight in a moment. The body was not recovered till four hours afterwards.

Leaning over the waterfall!
Lured by the fairy sight,
Heeding not the warning call,
Watching the foam and the flow,
Smooth and dark, or swift and bright,
Here in the shade and there in the light!
Oh, who could know
The coming sorrow, the nearing woe!

Leaning over the waterfall!
Only a day before
She had spoken of Jesu's wondrous call,
As He trod the waves of Galilee.
They asked, as she gazed from the sunset shore,
‘If He walked that water, what would you do?’
Then fell the answer, glad and true,
‘If He beckoned me,
I would go to Him on the pathless sea.’

Leaning over the waterfall
Only a moment before!

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And then the slip, the helpless call,
The plunge unheard in the pauseless roar
By the startled watchers on the shore;
And the feet that stood by the waterfall,
So fair and free,
Are standing with Christ by the crystal sea.

Leaning over the waterfall!
Have you not often leant
(What should hinder? or what appal?)
Freely, fearlessly, over the brink,
Merrily glancing adown the stream,
Or gazing wrapt in a musical dream
At the lovely waters? But pause and think—
Who kept your feet,
And suffered you not such death to meet?

Leaning over the waterfall!
What if your feet had slipped?
Never a moment of power to call,
Never a hand in time to save
From the terrible rush of the ruthless wave!
Hearken! would it be ill or well
If thus you fell?
Hearken! would it be heaven or hell?

Leaning over the waterfall!
Listen, and learn, and lean!
Listen to Him whose loving call
Soundeth deep in your heart to-day!
Learn of Jesus, the only way,
How to be holy, how to be blest!
Lean on His breast,
And yours shall be safety and joy and rest.

234

The Seed of Song.

The seed of a song was cast
On the listening hearts around,
And the sweetly winning sound
In a few short minutes passed.
But a song of perfect praise,
And a song of perfect love
Was the harvest after many days,
Beneath the everlasting rays
Of the summer-time above.

The seed of a single word
Fell among the furrows deep,
In their silent, wintry sleep,
And the sower never an echo heard.
But the ‘Come!’ was not in vain,
For that germ of Life and Love,
And the blessèd Spirit's quickening rain,
Made a golden sheaf of precious grain
For the Harvest Home above.

Will you not sow that song?
Will you not drop that word
Till the coldest hearts be stirred
From their slumber deep and long?
Then your harvest shall abound
With rejoicing full and grand,
Where the heavenly summer-songs resound,
And the fruits of faithful work are found,
In the Glorious Holy Land.

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Finis.

I have filled my book,
In odds and ends of time,
With fancies and reveries
And careless scraps of rhyme.

It is,—and yet it is not
A transcript of my soul;
For the passing gleams of light,
And the passing clouds that roll—

Like an unwilled photograph,
Have printed their image clear;
And the echo of many a laugh
And of many a sigh is here.

But words are cold, dead things,
And little they tell of the heart,
Or the burning glow
Of the fount below,
Whence the glance and the cheek-flush start.

I feel there is more within
Than may lightly be revealed;
What the spirit itself hath but dimly seen
To the pen may well be sealed.

Yes, I have filled my book,
And another will soon begin:
But no venturous guess may say
What shall be traced within!

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Shall its songs be all of joy,
Or of deepest and keenest woe?
I dare not anticipate,
And I'm glad that I do not know.

Shall its yet unwritten page
Be filled by my restless hand?
Or shall I be called away
To the shores of the Silent Land?

One thing I would hope and pray,
That its record may brighter shine,
That an onward and upward course
May be traced in every line.

And that some of its words may cheer
Some troubled and weary soul,
Or point as a waymark clear
To the distant yet nearing goal.

Then I shall not begrudge my thoughts
Their robing of careless rhyme;
Or deem them a useless waste
Of the priceless gift of Time.

237

Enigmas and Charades.

239

Enigma No. 1.

An army of Cyclops, fair reader, are we,
Yet your servants especially ought we to be;
The outposts of England, 'mid ocean's roar,
We have stood since the deluge, and perhaps before.

From Parry, and Cook, and Columbus too,
A vote of thanks to ourselves is due;
But to Solomon's ships, when to Ophir sent,
Our aid, not asked, was of course not lent.

To Matilda of Flanders' assistance we came,
When she toiled to emblazon the Conqueror's fame;
And the lasting memorials we are seen,
In a summer clime, of a swarthier queen.

The records of ancient days we bear,
And Time to erase us doth not dare,
Yet the poorest girl in our native land
Hath held us fast in her weary hand.

We steadily turn from the tropical glow
To the dreary regions of ice and snow,
For we're firmly bound with a magic spell,
Which none may loose, or its meaning tell.

240

Woe to the man who hath dared to wed
A woman who us and our use hath fled!
If you find us out, you may claim to be
As bright and as sharp as ever are we!

Enigma No. 2.

A whimsical set we must often seem,
Of crochets as full as an organist's dream;
If we were abolished, there'd straightway be
A piscatorian jubilee.
We are frequently clothed in a snowy array
As a maiden fair on her bridal day;
Yet we're often black as the blackest night,
E'en when we're lauding the soft moonlight.
The depths of the ocean we faithfully show;
On us hundreds of miles you may swiftly go;
We measure the distance from place to place,
And encircle the globe in our wide embrace.
Woe, woe to the soldier who dares to fly
From us when the hour of battle is nigh!
Yet the gardener himself, in his peaceful trade,
For planting his cabbages needs our aid.
If a lady endeavours her age to hide,
We ruthlessly publish it far and wide
Wherever she ventures to show her head;
Yet in us her destiny oft is read.
In the heart of a friend long, long forsaken
A few of ourselves may deep gladness awaken,
Yet ours is a many-stringed, changeful lyre,
For dismay and despair we may often inspire.

241

We're essential to poets, to artists, musicians,
To all washerwomen, and mathematicians;
It required a Euclid to tell what we be,
Yet us at this moment, fair reader, you see.

Enigma No. 3.

I am a native of many a land,
Of Norway's forests, of India's strand;
And beautiful England's smiles and tears
Have ripened and watered my early years.
I am found near the lowliest cottage fire,
And I dwell in the solemn cathedral choir,
The royal hall I am sure to grace,
And always in Parliament find a place;
Around me oft gather the great of the land,
In front of the Queen I audaciously stand;
And Arthur himself, in days of yore,
Owed half his renown to me or more.
As a quadruped oftenest I have been,
One-legged, or three-footed, or legless I'm seen.
The schoolboy I help through his hard calculation
When working a question in multiplication.
Since the era of Moses (who, truth to speak,
In a manner unfitting his character meek,
Most shamefully used me), till quite of late,
I've always been sober, and still, and sedate;
But now I am playing such wondrous vagaries,
That whether Beelzebub, witches, or fairies,
Electric attraction, or galvanic power,
Have thus turned my head, up to this present hour,

242

The wisest and cleverest brains of the day,
Quite out of their depth, are unable to say.
In olden days to my care were confided
The laws by which monarchs and subjects were guided;
The records of feats of chivalry,
Or of deeds of blood, were preserved by me:
But now having leaves, though, alas! no flower,
I bear what must pass in a single hour.

Enigma No. 4.

Of a useful whole I'm the most useful part;
I've a good circulation, for I've a heart;
I have two or three garments or outer clothes;
I am closely allied to a lip and nose;
Rags, and parchments, and jewels rare,
Rubbish and treasures within me I bear;
The tiniest leaf I produce I can nip
With a dexterous finger and thumb at my tip;
Though I'm often as tall as a spire to view,
If you travel far I accompany you;
I am the Indian's light canoe:
To puzzle you more, I'm an aqueduct too;
I'm part of a garment of olden time,
And part of a beast of a southern clime;
And finally, now, to crown the whole,
I am your body, but not your soul!

243

Enigma No. 5.

A term for autumn leaves when all their lovely tints are fled;
A mountain in Arabia, lifting high its rocky head;
What witches and astrologers pretend they truly are;
A state from which I greatly hope your conscience still is far:
Those four are all alike, you'll see, in mere pronunciation,
But diverse in orthography and in signification.
Transpose the second, you will gain the title of a king,
And what you would be sure to do if he should enter in;
Transpose the fourth, you'll see at once how ancient warriors treated
The cities of the enemy, with passion overheated;
Transpose the third, and lo! the first will straightway be revealed.
Now, reader, I shall like to see this mystery unsealed.

Enigma No. 6.

Seventeen hundred and sixty yards,
A maiden's name and a term at cards,
A halting leg, something stronger than beer,
A river to many a student dear,
A fragrant tree, and a foreign fruit,
A government coach on a postal route,
Honiton, Brussels, or Valenciennes,
A spice preceding bishops and deans,
A sin of the tongue, and the stronger sex,
The state of the sea when no tempests vex,

244

What you look for three or four times a day,
What the Prince of Wales to the crown will lay,
Three Scripture names, and a region wide,
What an archer takes his shaft to guide:
With six little letters all these are framed;
When each you have duly and rightly named,
They form what I hope you will never dare
Against friend or foe in your heart to bear.

Enigma No. 7.

If you get into me, I have no sort of doubt,
But that you will endeavour forthwith to get out;
Behead me, and then I'm the lone widow's weeds;
Behead me again, and I'm tiny round seeds;
Repeat yet again the above operation,
And I am renowned for my quick imitation,
My mischievous habits, and horrid grimaces,—
You're myself, if you practise unnatural graces.

Enigma No. 8.

What was I? Such a clever friar,
I barely 'scaped the witches' pyre;
Yet doth philosophy in me
One of her bright admirers see;
And forms of classic beauty grew
Beneath my hand to nature true;
Each wondrous magic lantern show
To me the happy children owe;

245

With Schwartz contesting, I should mention
The honour of his great invention.
What am I? What you may despise,
For I am little more than grease,
And yet I am an annual prize
For matrimonial love and peace.
In every scrape or awkward plight
I hope to save me you'll be able.
I am the ploughboy's great delight,
And often grace his Sunday table.
From dreams of mire and sweet reposc
To streaky excellence I rose;
And, following still the chimney sweep,
I learned to smoke instead of sleep.

Enigma No. 9.

In fiery caverns was my glowing birth,
The great laboratories of the earth;
Thence issuing, with devastating power,
Entombing cities in a single hour;
The vineyards of bright Sicily have been
Of my o'erwhelming might too oft the dreary scene.

Yet I encircle many a fair white arm,
Or holding ink and pens give no alarm;
Though none may stay my incandescent course
Till Neptune doth oppose his briny force.
Mysterious child of subterranean fires,
Strange relics I preserve of fair Italia's sires.

246

Enigma No. 10.

The royal sun with his orbèd flame
To be myself I modestly claim;
And yet, though strange, it is perfectly true,
I am at this moment within your shoe.
Have you a delicate hand to show?
Its symmetry partly to me you owe;
And I cannot think how you can possibly see
If deprived in another part of me.
The ancient dame, with her spectacled nose,
By my strange contortions I often pose,
As I glide away from her busy hand
To rejoice the juvenile feline band.
I am a being of direful power,
And many I haste to their last dread hour;
Yet the tiny child on his feeble feet
Is gladdened and charmed by my motions fleet.
I am said to whistle, though not to sigh;
Merriment often to hundreds I bring.
On due inquiry I think you will find
That twenty people in me have dined;
Yet when at dinner you take your seat
I'm sometimes the very first thing you eat.
Who patronise me? The college youth,
Loving me better than books in truth;
The friends of science, the friends of strife,
The duellist seeking his fellow's life,
Of sharpers and blacklegs not a few,
Equine doctors frequently too,

247

The conjuror showing his skilful tricks,
In the list the graceful and fair we mix;
And last, not least, our gracious Queen
My patroness certainly ever hath been.

Enigma No. 11.

I am a reward, and a punishment too,
What you may give, and what you may do,
Animal, mineral, both I may be,
Vegetable oftenest perhaps of the three.
Once, I know, as the story goes,
I was the cause of a bridegroom's woes;
But often since I have dimmed the life
Of a wearily-sighing neglected wife.
Never a court without me was seen,
Never a vestry either, I ween,
Never a coach, and never a train,
Tho' sometimes a hindrance the latter to gain.
Famous I am for a long dark way,
Dismal as night in the brightest day.
From the depths of my bosom may rise and float
Many a soft and melodious note;
Why should ye marvel? The rich and fair,
The gay and gorgeous are often there.
Wherever the sweetest of sounds goes forth
Through the radiant south or the dreary north,
A tale of me will be surely told,
Or false were the words of a prophecy old.
A little one longs to begin to do good,
I sometimes help it, and always could;

248

Yet the hardened man and the cruel boy
May find in me a savage joy.
Give me, and oh, what a monster you'll be;
Refuse me, ‘was e'er such a niggard as he;’
Hire me, then you are rich, I conclude;
Mount me, and then you may view and be viewed;
Open me, perhaps you are even a thief,
Perhaps 't was by way of consoling your grief;
Plant me, I see you are neat in your taste;
Enter me—nervousness, flurry, and haste
Won't at all suit, so I pray you take heed,
Or counsel will into me put you indeed.

Enigma No. 12.

Lives there a poet, old or young,
Who has not sung my praise?
For ever silent be his tongue,
Forgotten be his lays!

I have a father dark and stern,
A daughter bright and gay;
I weep upon his funeral urn,
I die beneath her sway.

And yet that father binds me fast,
Hushing my low sweet voice;
That daughter sets me free at last,
And bids me still rejoice.

249

Deceitful I am said to be,
A thing of treacherous smiles,
And many meet their end in me,
Wreck'd by my sunny wiles.

Yet health and cure 'tis mine to give
To many a sickly frame;
An antelope of Africa
Usurps my well-known name.

I'm born beneath the cold hard ground,
Yet life and joy I bring,
With song and mirth to all around,
Upon my emerald wing.

I help to measure Time's swift flight;
Tide has to do with me;
In guns and traps behold my might:
O say what can I be?

Enigma No. 13.

That I'm very well-known to all metaphysicians 'tis true,
Whose brains I attempted to clear, being one of the crew;
A secret of wonderful power in me was conceal'd,
Which firstly by love, but by treachery next was revealed;
I never am mentioned as living, though oft in the city,
When said to be dead, much impatience I rouse, but no pity;
To some navigation I lend indispensable hand,
Yet I'm not of the slightest utility saving inland.

250

I frequently act as a guardian, though I must own
My wards to attain their majority never were known;
The brow of the maiden to me owes the half of its charms,
And yet, strange to say, I'm a part of death-dealing firearms.
I've a slim coadjutor who with me my secret possesses,
My master he is, for he knows all my inmost recesses;
My safety and faithfulness vanish if once one can gain him,
Yet I'm perfectly useless without him, so prithee retain him.
The apple Eve gathered was never supposed to be me,
And yet if you pick me, beware of the powers that be;
By a figure of speech I'm said to be silver or golden,
Though to metals far baser I really am much more beholden.
Of loved ones far distant I'm often the fondly kept token,
Memorial and echo of harpstrings which death had long broken.

Enigma No. 14.

I may be tall, and slender, and round,
Or perfectly square, and as flat as the ground;
No edifice ever without me is raised,
And yet, when 'tis finished, I never am praised.

The bears themselves, with a grim delight,
Hail me as an old acquaintance quite;
And a smaller quadruped lays its claim
With a feline addition to bear my name.

251

Glows there a heart in the English breast
Which beats for the injured and long oppressed?
At the thought of me it will rise and swell;
For each free-soul'd patriot knows me well.

Where may you find me? In sunny Kent,
Where the hop-pickers sing, while on labour intent
Or in realms of ice and eternal snow,
'Neath the gorgeous aurora's crimson glow.

In celestial regions I'm certainly found,
And wherever on earth there's an acre of ground;
Where his lordship's chariot proudly speeds,
I ever am close to the high-bred steeds.

I have stood very near to the triple crown,
Yet I'm seen in the back streets of every town;
On the festal day of a short-lived queen
The chief attraction I've ever been.

Attraction, said I? You little know
How much to my power of attraction you owe!
All the gold, and the pearls, the silk, sugar, and tea,
That are borne to your homes o'er the pathless sea.

I may quietly stand by your drawing-room fire,
Bearing a comfort you often desire!
Or stretch my bold arm o'er the surging wave,
Some wretch from its billowy depths to save.

252

Enigma No. 15.

Where will ye seek me? The Andes rise
Silently grand beneath tropical skies;
And far Himalaya's crowns of snow
Gleam o'er the burning plains below;
I dwell with each, for the mountain air
Certainly suits me everywhere.
Know ye the silent and death-like realm,
Where winter hath donn'd his glassy helm,
And conquering rules o'er land and sea?
Beneath his throne is the home for me.
Ye may seek in the gay and brilliant throng,
Where the hours fleet by in dance and song;
There, martyr-like, I'm sure to be,
Though to venture there may be death to me.
Yet I'm never afraid of catching cold
(Like some young ladies) however bold.
'Tis a wonder my mother should let me go,
But she is remarkably yielding, I know;
And many who tried us both can say,
She yields directly when I give way.
My character's quite the more solid, I state,
But she is a person of greater weight.
Though never convicted of any crime
'Tis perfectly true that, for months at a time,
I am starved in a dungeon all damp and bare,
With hardly the half of a prisoner's fare.
I'm rather a traveller, I may tell,
And know the Atlantic routes quite well;

253

Sometimes on my own account I go,
Sometimes whether I will or no.
When will ye seek me? The sultry glow
Of a summer noon is the time, I trow,
When the burning pavement and dusty street
Make you long for a rest for your aching feet.
I have done in my time some wonderful things;
Have been made the dwelling-place of kings;
Have baffled the general's proud careering;
Have outdone Stephenson's engineering.
I nevertheless can condescend
To Monsieur Soyer my aid to lend;
Or, better still, can bring mirth and joy
To the heart of the sturdy village boy.

Enigma No. 16.

Primeval woods my parent's birth
Beheld, where no loud axe was heard,
Where through a solitary earth
No voice the leafy echoes stirred;
But I was born in gloominess profound,
In sable swaddling clothes the child of light was bound.

Released at length by human skill,
From long confinement forth I sped,
And in each city's highway still
I linger far beneath your tread;
Though there are times when, grovelling thus no more,
Beyond the clouds of earth, a prisoner still, I soar.

254

No eye my subtle form may see,
Till, coming forth to light,
A slow consumption wasteth me
In man's unpitying sight.
Yet when from durance vile I swift escape,
All feel my baleful presence, though none see my shape.

I smile upon the giddy scene
Of mirth, and revelry, and song;
Yet in the sacred courts have been
Devotion's handmaid long;
With darkness waging constant strife and sure,
I ever shun the day-beams though so bright and pure.

Though none have ever heard my voice,
Yet words of gladness traced in me
Have bid full many a heart rejoice,
When England's flag waved high and free.
And with the song of victory sweetly blended
The full deep hymn of praise that war's dark storm was ended.

Enigma No. 17.

I am the child of the brightest thing
Which may gladden mortal eyes,
Yet the silent sweep of my dusky wing
Over my mother may dimness fling,
And smiling she faints and dies.

255

I move, I dance, I fall, I fly,
Yet anon I may calmly sleep;
I mark the bright-winged hours flit by,
Your ingenuity perhaps I try;
I am long, or short, or deep.

I have been hailed as a boon untold,
Or dreaded and shunned ere now;
The earth in my wide embrace I fold,
The mountain regions are my stronghold,
Yet I steadily follow the plough.

I may rest a while in the minster pile,
Or beneath the old oak tree;
Often with trackless step I pass
O'er the whispering corn and the waving grass,
Or tread the changeful sea.

All the day through I follow you,
Yet beware how you follow me;
For each child of man I may oft beguile,
And cloud the light of his sunniest smile,
Till for ever away I flee.

Enigma No. 18.

Ye have seen me in the skies,
Yet beneath the ground I rise;
Sometimes far above your head,
Sometimes deep below your tread.

256

Where the forest boughs entwine,
Baffling still the gay sunshine;
Gaze aloft, and you will see
In myself their tracery.

Laughing eye and dimpling smile
May be even me awhile;
Playful words, like javelins thrown,
As myself you often own.

Many a sunny stream ye trace,
Rippling in my calm embrace;
Still I watch the secret shrine
Of the rich and ruddy wine.

Nave, and choir, and aisle, I trow,
All to me their glories owe;
Even a seraph form by me,
Greater, fairer yet may be.

Many a loved one may be laid
In my sadly solemn shade;
On your brow I now may dwell,
While your lips my name will tell.

Enigma No. 19.

Say, know ye not the pilgrim band,
Who wander far and wide,
And greeting find in every land
Wherever they abide?

257

They meet full many a friend I wot,
Who fain would have them stay;
To such they cling, and leave them not,
Yet still go on their way.

Each bears a staff and often twain,
And need they many a rest;
The oldest oft seems young again,
And perhaps we love them best.

They speak a language passing sweet,
With heart-lore richly fraught;
But oh! to some they daily meet
Their eloquence is nought.

Yet strange the laws their speech obeys,
Who drink its mystic tone
May find within each simplest phrase
A meaning all their own.

Some deem they tell of long past years,
When they were girls and boys;
Some only hear of bygone tears,
And some of present joys.

Some hear them speak of One who sent
That welcome pilgrim band,
And bless the love that freely lent
Such boon to every land.

258

Enigma No. 20.

Oh, haughty Thebes! In shadowy days of yore,
Where history faintly blends with mythologic lore,
I was thy hidden terror, yet, revealed,
I traced a stain of woe upon thy glittering shield.

Fair Palestine! I was put forth in thee
Amid a scene of gay festivity;
Yet brought by me a sullen frown, I ween,
Was on the brow of my originator seen.

'Tis mine to give thee strange and needless toil,
For Gordian knots I weave in many a tangled coil:
I shun publicity, for I declare,
That if you speak my name, I vanish into air.

Enigma No. 21.

Though constantly we're in the mire,
We shine and sparkle with our fire;
Part of the verb ‘to speak’ we need,
And yet no words from us proceed.
The annals of the Inquisition
Reveal too well our awful mission;
In what they call the ‘good old days,’
Our patronesses won high praise.
It is our business to convey
Men, beasts, and chattels day by day;
You often bear us near your heart,
And would be loth from us to part,

259

Though never weary with our speed,
Full often we are tired indeed;
A tribe of insects, most minute,
Receive from us a name to suit.
Long since we used to condescend
Our aid in cookery to lend.
We guide the vessel in its course,
And multiply your puny force.

Charade No. 1.

The veiling shades of night departed,
On Lebanon's heights was a rosy glow,
When the serried ranks of the Lion-hearted
Prepared for my first at the Moslem foe.
A voice was heard, like a clarion proud,
Forth, forth to battle, to glory go!
To my lovely second I solemnly vowed
To crush the insolent Moslem foe.
And forth they went, but the voice was stilled,—
A stroke of my whole had laid him low;
By other hands was the vow fulfilled,
For they tamed the pride of the Moslem foe.

Charade No. 2.

My first gleams bright 'mid azure shields,
On rich emblazoned argent fields.
If you too often use my second,
An egotist you will be reckoned.

260

My third, it is a battle-cry;
And be it yours in every high,
And good, and noble end and aim,
As such it is the road to fame.
My belted whole you may descry
Illumining the southern sky.

Charade No. 3.

From his ruby pavilion Phœbus arose,
And looked down from his shining first,
And the earth at his glance, from her calm repose
Into beauty and gladness burst,
But the clouds of sorrow he could not chase,
Nor the gleaming tears upon Katie's face.

On a merry ride to the busy town
In my first she too surely had reckoned,
Disappointed and angry she flung herself down
On my whole: but alas, in my second;
So I told her, my second you never can be
While such haughty tempers so often I see.

Charade No. 4.

Hurrah for merry England!
For good Saint George hurrah!
For Richard of the Lion Heart,
The noble and the gay,

261

Returns from long captivity,
And 'tis a festal day.

With chivalry and minstrelsy
The hours shall speed along,
Where meet the beauteous and the brave,
The gentle and the strong.
(I would my first had gazed upon
The gladly loyal throng.)

The warriors of Palestine,
Who led my second well
When on the ranks of Saladin
Like avalanche they fell,
Now in the tournament alone
A fancied foe repel.

The Saxon serf may lay aside
His clumsy third, I trow;
And leave it in the silent field,
With cool and sweatless brow;
For what has he to do to-day
With weary spade and plough?

But who is he, the Saxon youth,
With royal Saxon bride,
Who Saracen and Templar hath
Successfully defied?
He is my famous whole, I ween,
The valiant and the tried.

262

Charade No. 5.

My second could never produce my first,
Though its opposite frequently may;
'Tis a thing that's trampled upon and cursed,
So tell me its name, I pray.

In my whole both my second and first you would see,
With more of the latter than pleasant;
A treat I consider this latter to be,
Though, like all earthly good, evanescent.

Above my second 'tis commonly borne,
Though carefully kept below it;
Full many a home it has caused to mourn,
And the newspaper accidents show it.

When my second is looking its dullest and worst,
And my whole must be dreary indeed,
Like a hard-hearted tyrant comes forth my first,
With whom it were vain to plead.

Charade No. 6.

Where the tall pine-forest made
Deepest, darkest, holiest shade,
Came Nesota, sorrow-laden,
She, the lovely Indian maiden.
Came, ere she had waited long,
Karanò, the swift, the strong;

263

He, who bowed to nought beside,
Bent to her in lowly pride;
Bent, until his lofty brow,
Loftiest of the tribes around,
Touched the greensward hallowed now,
Where her first had kissed the ground.

‘Karanò! arise and fly!
Hands of power and wrath are nigh,
From thy side shall I be driven,
Like a willow lightning-riven.
Karanò, ere thou depart,
Lay this second on thy heart,
Token of Nesota's love,
From thy own, thy stricken dove.’
Trembling in his hand she laid
My shining second, then farewell!
She is gone, through bush and blade,
Fleetly as a wild gazelle.

Karanò, the swift, the strong,
Baffles all pursuers long,
Till the moon is on the wane;
Then a red deer they have slain.
To the treacherous banquet led,
When the new moon's feast is spread,
They have mingled in his bowl,
Secretly, my deadly whole.
Karanò, hath found repose
Where my whole doth darkly wave,
And the tall pine-forests close
O'er Nesota's quiet grave.

264

Charade No. 7.

My whole, the poet of flood and fell,
Of valley and breezy hill,
Has passed from the scenes he loved so well,
And none his place may fill.
In his first, with their simple and childlike grace,
Of his second an index all may trace.

Charade No. 8.

Soon the hour of dawn shall pass,
Clear and loud the lark is singing;
Swiftly through the waving grass
Now my bright-eyed first is springing.

Down the still and shadowy dale
Floats my second, sweetly telling,
‘Morning lifts her misty veil,
Spectral darkness soon dispelling.’

Far remote from beaten way,
Now my dewy whole is bending;
And where summer breezes play
Sweetness to their breath is lending.

265

Charade No. 9.

Distant from the noisy town
Sits my first and next alone,
In my ivy-wreathen whole,
Loved and blessed by many a soul.

More than on my first, I ween,
With his brethren he hath been;
But my third hath touched his brow,
And he waits in silence now;

Hoping soon to see the day
When his second, far away,
May replace his trembling voice:
This shall make his third rejoice.

Charade No. 10.

My first dwells in the torrid zone,
Its beauty and its boon,
Yet this the Esquimaux must own
Beneath an Arctic moon.

He who would do it is untrue,
Though all in every land
To bear it off in strife desire,
It always is at hand.

My first and next in days of yore
Went forth in lowly guise:

266

A staff was theirs, but little store
Of what the world would prize.

Yet one, alas! in later days,
With murder on his brow,
Revealed how far in guilty ways
A child of earth may go.

My last I think you'll quickly name
In half a minute more;
Are twenty hundreds quite the same
As just a hundred score?

For if you say what each would be,
The name you will have got;
And yet, reversing, you will see
That surely it is not.

My whole I leave without debate,
For 'tis not woman's mission
To criticise the wise and great
And play the politician.

Charade No. 11.

Awake, ye sleepers!
My first hath sung his loud reveille,
And wakened through the glistening dale
The early reapers.

Why will ye linger?
Is it no second that ye hear

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The morning hymn, so glad and clear,
Of that wise singer?

Come forth, nor tarry!
And track the busy-wingèd bee,
Who from my whole right joyously
Sweet spoil doth carry.

Charade No. 12.

Arise, my first! In peerless radiance beaming,
A veil of glory thou dost weave for earth:
The ocean waves to welcome thee are gleaming,
For thou alone to Beauty givest birth.

Shine forth, my second! Freshly now is flowing
The busy stream of life, and labour too;
Each heart with ardour, base or noble glowing,
Till thou shalt close, arresting all they do.

All hail, my whole! thou comest with rich pleasure
An angel from the land of pure delight,
The great man's blessing, and the poor man's treasure,
Our earnest of the day which knows no night.

Charade No. 13.

My first had spread her darksome wing
O'er all the loveliness of spring;
My third arose with mournful wail—
The young leaves told their first sad tale,

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The old oak groaned, the flowerets sighed,
The hawthorn bloom was scattered wide:
But ere my gloomy first had passed,
When silent was my third at last,
My whole awoke the moonlight dell
To list the sweet tale she could tell;
Then mingled, in strange harmony,
Silence and sweetest melody.
‘Your second, why such strange omission?’
'Tis but a tiny preposition.

Charade No. 14.

Heard ye the long, low roar
Blend with the sea-mew's cry?
Saw ye the nearing shore
Where the white foam-wreaths lie?
O wait, seaman, wait while the tempest shall last,
For my first is a danger thou hast not passed.

How shall the seaman wait?
There stands his white-walled home,
From its blithely opened gate
Never more need he roam.
My second he brings from a distant realm,
And leaves he for ever the weary helm.

On! for the tide ebbs fast!
On! for the night grows dark,
But the cold wave-arms are cast
Round the seaman's sinking bark.
He makes my whole with the angry sea,—
Thine be the gold, so my life go free!

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Charade No. 15.

My whole is but a species of my third,
Yet has my third no right to such a name
Unless my first and second form a word,
To which he lays an undisputed claim;
But if my whole renounce my first and second,
My first indeed he may, but not my whole, be reckoned.

Charade No. 16.

The all-victorious Roman
Hath raised his eagles high,
The Carthaginian foeman
Right proudly to defy.

Forth marched in noble daring
The leader of the day,
A mighty second bearing
In all the stern affray.

Ye glorious ranks, assemble!
‘Push on, my first,’ he cried,
‘And soon their whole shall tremble,
And crushed shall be their pride.’

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Charade No. 17.

Enter my first with a studied grace,
Conceit in his head, and a smirk on his face;
Of fashion he deems himself quite the top,
And he's scented like any perfumer's shop;
So among the ladies he's surely reckoned,
For the evening at least, to be quite my second.
But oh! what a fall for the brilliant star!
A lady's whisper is heard too far:
‘Of all the flowers that ever were,
The only one I to him compare
Is my scentless whole, with its gaudy stare.’
Not quite rightly spelt, but comparison rare.

Charade No. 18.

A bright and joyous frame of mind,
With Cephas properly combined,
Produce, I'll boldly dare to say,
A statesman of the present day.

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Chords for Children.

273

Sunday Bells.

O sweet Sabbath bells!
A message of musical chiming
Ye bring us from God, and we know what you say;
Now rising, now falling,
So tunefully calling
His children to seek Him, and praise Him to-day.

The day we love best!
The brightest and best of the seven,
The pearl of the week, and the light of our way;
We hold it a treasure,
And count it a pleasure,
To welcome its dawning and praise Him to-day.

O sweet Sabbath rest!
The gift of our Father in heaven;
A herald sent down from the home far away,
With peace for the weary,
And joy for the dreary:
Then, oh! let us thank Him, and praise Him to-day.

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Rejoice and be glad!
'Tis the day of our Saviour and Brother,
The Life that is risen, the Truth and the Way;
Salvation He brought us
When wand'ring He sought us,
With blood He hath bought us :then praise Him to-day!

From ‘Sacred Songs for Little Singers.’ Novello & Co.

Flowers.

Buds and bells! Sweet April pleasures,
Springing all around,
White and gold and crimson treasures,
From the cold, unlovely ground!
He who gave them grace and hue
Made the little children too!

When the weary little flowers
Close their starry eyes,
By the dark and dewy hours
Strength and freshness God supplies.
He who sends the gentle dew
Cares for little children too!

Then He gives the pleasant weather,
Sunshine warm and free,
Making all things glad together,
Kind to them and kind to me.
Lovely flowers! He loveth you,
And the little children too!

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Though we cannot hear you singing
Softly chiming lays,
Surely God can see you bringing
Silent songs of wordless praise!
Hears your anthem, sweet and true,
Hears the little children too!

Evening Prayer.

Now the light has gone away,
Saviour, listen while I pray,
Asking Thee to watch and keep,
And to send me quiet sleep.

Jesus, Saviour, wash away
All that has been wrong to-day,
Help me every day to be
Good and gentle, more like Thee.

Let my near and dear ones be
Always near and dear to Thee;
Oh, bring me and all I love
To Thy happy home above!

Now my evening praise I give:
Thou didst die that I might live,
All my blessings come from Thee;
Oh, how good Thou art to me!

Thou, my best and kindest Friend,
Thou wilt love me to the end!
Let me love Thee more and more.
Always better than before!

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Are they the eyes of Angels,
That always wake to keep
A loving watch above us,
While we are fast asleep?
Or are they lamps that God has lit
From His own glorious light,
To guide the little children's souls
Whom He will call to-night?

We hardly see them twinkle
In any summer night,
But in the winter evenings
They sparkle clear and bright.
Is this to tell the little ones,
So hungry, cold, and sad,
That there's a shining home for them,
Where all is warm and glad?

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More beautiful and glorious,
And never cold and far,
Is He who always loves them,
The Bright and Morning Star.
I wish those little children knew
That holy, happy light!
Lord Jesus, shine on them, I pray,
And make them glad to-night.

‘When the morning stars sang together.’— Job xxxviii. 7.

My Little Tree.

They tell me that my little tree
Is only just my age, but see,—
Already ripe and rosy fruit
Is peeping under every shoot!
How little have I brought,
But withered leaves of foolish thought;
And angry words, like thorn,
How many have I borne!

No fruit my little tree can bring
Without the gentle rain of spring;
Nor could it ever ripen one,
Without the glowing summer sun:
O Father! shed on me
Thy Holy Spirit from above,
That I may bring to Thee
The golden fruit of love.

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Let sunshine of Thy grace increase
The pleasant fruit of joy and peace,
With purple gleam of gentleness,
That most of all my home may bless;
While faith and goodness meet
In ruby ripeness rich and sweet,
Let these in me be found,
And evermore abound.

Thy Kingdom Come.

God of heaven! hear our singing;
Only little ones are we,
Yet a great petition bringing,
Father, now we come to Thee.

Let Thy kingdom come, we pray Thee,
Let the world in Thee find rest;
Let all know Thee, and obey Thee,
Loving, praising, blessing, blessed!

Let the sweet and joyful story
Of the Saviour's wondrous love,
Wake on earth a song of glory,
Like the angel's song above.

Father, send the glorious hour,
Every heart be Thine alone!
For the kingdom, and the power,
And the glory are Thine own.

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The Moon.

‘The moon walking in brightness.’— Job xxxi. 26.

Not long ago the moon was dark,
No light she gave or gained;
She did not look upon the sun,
So all her glory waned.
Now through the sky so broad and high,
In robe of shining whiteness,
Among the solemn stars of God,
She walks in brightness.

Look up to Him who is the Sun,
The true and Only Light,
And seek the glory of His face,
His smile so dear and bright.
Then making gladness all around,
By gentleness and rightness,
You, too, shall shine with light divine,
And walk in brightness.

Jessie's Friend.

Little Jessie, darling pet,
Do you want a Friend?
One who never will forget,
Loving to the end;
One whom you can tell when sad
Everything that grieves;
One who loves to make you glad,
One who never leaves.

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Such a loving Friend is ours,
Near us all the day,
Helping us in lesson hours,
Smiling on our play;
Keeping us from doing wrong,
Guarding everywhere,
Listening to each happy song
And each little prayer.

Jessie, if you only knew
What He is to me,
Surely you would seek Him too,
You would ‘come and see.’
Come, and you will find it true,
Happy you will be;
Jesus says, and says to you,
‘Come, oh come to Me.’

The Bower.

Will you come out and see
My pretty bower with me,
My sweet little house that lilac boughs have made;
With windows up on high,
Through which I see the sky,
And look up to Him who made the pleasant shade?

The sunbeams come and go
So brightly to and fro,
Like angels of light, too dazzling to be seen!

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They weave a curtain fair
About my doorway there,
And paint all my walls with shining gold and green.

I have sweet music too,
And lovely songs for you,
To hear in my house among the lilac leaves;
For breezes softly play,
And robins sing all day:
I think this is praise that God on high receives.

Trust.

Sadly bend the flowers
In the heavy rain;
After beating showers,
Sunbeams come again.
Little birds are silent
All the dark night through;
When the morning dawneth,
Their songs are sweet and new.

When a sudden sorrow
Comes like cloud and night,
Wait for God's to-morrow;
All will then be bright.
Only wait and trust Him
Just a little while;
After evening tear-drops
Shall come the morning smile.

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The Dying Sister.

Darling boy,
Sister's joy,
With your loving smile,
Kiss me now,
On my brow,
Stay with me awhile!
He who has lovèd me,
He whom I longed to see,
Calls me away;
I must not stay.

He is near,
True and dear,
Darling, do not cry!
Jesus too
Loveth you,
Loves you more than I.
Kneel by my pillow here,
Tell Him the sorrow, dear;
He is so kind,
This you will find.

Angels bright,
Robed in light,
In that happy home,
Singing wait
At the gate,
Till He bids me come.

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Soon, brother, I shall see
Him who has died for me;
I am so glad,
Yet you are sad.

Hymn and prayer
We did share,
Many an evening past;
Jesus heard
Every word,
This may be the last.
Ere next the light grows dim,
I may be there with Him.
Praising Him too,
Waiting for you!

The Angels' Song.

Now let us sing the Angels' Song,
That rang so sweet and clear,
When heavenly light and music fell
On earthly eye and ear,—
To Him we sing, our Saviour King,
Who always deigns to hear:
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

He came to tell the Father's love,
His goodness, truth, and grace;
To show the brightness of His smile,
The glory of His face;

284

With His own light, so full and bright,
The shades of death to chase.
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

He came to bring the weary ones
True peace and perfect rest;
To take away the guilt and sin
Which darkened and distressed;
That great and small might hear His call,
And all in Him be blessed.
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

He came to bring a glorious gift,
‘Goodwill to men;’—and why?
Because He loved us, Jesus came
For us to live and die.
Then, sweet and long, the Angels' Song
Again we raise on high:
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

Who will take Care of Me?

[_]

WRITTEN FOR EMILY F. W. W. SNEPP.

Who will take care of me? darling, you say!
Lovingly, tenderly watched as you are!
Listen! I give you the answer to-day,
ONE who is never forgetful or far!

He will take care of you! all through the day,
Jesus is near you to keep you from ill;
Walking or resting, at lessons or play,
Jesus is with you and watching you still.

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He will take care of you! all through the night,
Jesus, the Shepherd, His little one keeps;
Darkness to Him is the same as the light;
He never slumbers and He never sleeps.

He will take care of you! all through the year,
Crowning each day with His kindness and love,
Sending you blessing and shielding from fear,
Leading you on to the bright home above.

He will take care of you! yes, to the end!
Nothing can alter His love to His own.
Darling, be glad that you have such a Friend,
He will not leave you one moment alone!

Something to Do.

‘Something to do, mamma, something to do!’
Who has not heard the cry?
Something to plan and something to try!
Something to do when the sky is blue,
And the sun is clear and high;
Something to do on a rainy day,
Tired of lessons or tired of play;
Something to do in the morning walk,
Better than merely to stroll and talk.
For the fidgety feet, oh, something to do,
For the mischievous fingers something too;
For the busy thought in the little brain,
For the longing love of the little heart,
Something easy, and nice, and plain;
Something in which they can all take part;

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Something better than breakable toys,
Something for girls and something for boys!
I know, I know, and I'll tell you too,
Something for all of you now to do!

First, you must listen! Do you know
Where the poor sick children go?
Think of hundreds all together
In the pleasant summer weather,
Lying sadly day by day,
Having pain instead of play;
No dear mother sitting near,
No papa to kiss good-night;
Brothers, sisters, playmates dear,
All away and out of sight.
Little feet that cannot go
Where the pink-tipped daisies grow;
Little eyes that never see
Bud or blossom, bird or tree;
Little hands that folded lie
As the weary weeks go by.
What if you could send them flowers,
Brightening up the dismal hours?

Then the hospitals for others,
For the fathers and the mothers;
Where the weary sufferers lie,
While the weeks go slowly past,
Some with hope of cure at last,
Some to suffer till they die.

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Now, while you are scampering free,
In your happy spring-tide glee,
They are lying sadly there,
Weak and sick—oh, don't you care?
Don't you want to cheer each one?
Don't you wish it could be done?

Then the poor old people too,
In the dreary workhouse-room,
Nothing all day long to do,
Nothing to light up the gloom!
Older, weaker, every day,
All their children gone away;
Nothing pleasant, nothing bright,
For the dimming, aching sight.
Would it not be nice to send
Nosegays by some loving friend?

Then if you could only see
Where so many thousands live,
All in sin and misery,
Dirt and noise and poverty,
What, oh, what would you not give,
Just some little thing to do
That might do a little good!
Don't you want to help them too?
I will tell you how you could!
Gather flowers for Jesus' sake,
For a loving hand to take
Into all those dreadful places,
Bringing smiles to haggard faces,

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Bringing tears to hardened eyes;
Bringing back the memories
Of the home so long ago
Left for wickedness and woe,
Of the time, so far away,
When they learned to sing and pray.
Oh, you cannot guess the power
Of a little simple flower!

And yet the message they should bear,
Of God our Father's love and care,
Is never really read aright
Without the Holy Spirit's light;—
Without the voice of Jesus, heard
In His own sweet and mighty word.
And so we never send the flowers
With only messages of ours;
But every group of buds and bells
The story of salvation tells.
Let every little nosegay bring
Not only fragrance of the spring,
But sweeter fragrance of His Name,
Who saves and pardons, soothes and heals,
The living Saviour, still the Same,
Who every pain and sorrow feels.
The little texts are sweeter far
Than lily-bell or primrose star;
And He will help you just to choose
The very words that He will use.

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To find them out and make a list
Of promise-words, so strong and bright,
So full of comfort and of light,
That all their meaning can't be missed!
Think how every one may be
God's own message from above
To some little girl or boy,
Changing sadness into joy,
Soothing some one's dreadful pain,
Making some one glad again,
With His comfort and His love!
Calling them to Jesus' feet,
Showing them what He has done!
Darlings, will it not be sweet
If He blesses only one?
Only one? Nay, ask Him still,
Ask Him every one to bless!
He can do it, and He will;
Do not let us ask Him less!

Now then, set to work at once,
If you're not a thorough dunce!
Cut the little holders squarely,
Keep the edges smooth and straight:
Now the paint-box: artists bold!
Paint the borders firm and fairly
With your prettiest red or gold!
Easy this, at any rate.
Now for writing—clearest, neatest,
(Or it may be gently hinted,
Better still if neatly printed.)
Tracing words the strongest, sweetest,—

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Words that must and will avail,
Though the loveliest blossoms fail.
Then away, away, the first fine day!
Follow the breeze that is out at play,
Follow the bird and follow the bee,
Follow the butterfly flitting free,
For I think they know
Where the sweetest wildflowers grow;
Bluebells in the shady dingle,
Where the violet-odours mingle;
Where the fairy primrose lamp
Seems to light the hawthorn shade;
Orchis in the meadow damp,
Cowslip in the sunny glade.
(But not the pale anemone,
For that will fade so speedily.)
Hedge and coppice, lane and field,
Gather all the store they yield!
Buttercups and daisies too,
Though so little prized by you,
Will be gold and silver treasure,
In their power of giving pleasure
To the poor in city alleys,
Far away from hills and valleys,
Who have never seen them grow
Since their childhood, long ago;
Or to children pale and small,
Who never saw them grow at all!
And don't forget the fair green leaves
That have their own sweet tales to tell,
And waving grass that humbly weaves
The emerald robe of bank and dell.

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Is there some one at home who cannot go
To gather the flowers as they grow?
Then there is plenty for her to do
In making the nosegays up for you;
Getting them ready to travel away,
In time for the work of the coming day.

But oh, how busy you will be
When the packing must be done!
Oh, the bustle and the glee,
Will it not be famous fun?
And when the box is gone away,
The pleasure need not all be past
I think it will not be the last!
Just set to work another day!
And send some more
From the beautiful store
Which God keeps sending you fresh and new,
And thank Him too
That He has given you ‘Something to do!’

Loving Messages for the Little Ones.

[Every little flower that grows]

Every little flower that grows,
Every little grassy blade,
Every little dewdrop, shows
Jesus cares for all He made:
Jesus loves, and Jesus knows!
So you need not be afraid!

292

[Fair the blossoms opening early!]

Fair the blossoms opening early!
For the dew
Fell upon them, cool and pearly,
Brightening every hue.
Like a little thirsty flower,
Lift your face,
Seek the gentle, holy shower
Of the Spirit's grace.

[Grace and glory! They are yours]

Grace and glory! They are yours
Through the Saviour's dying love;
For His own sweet word endures
Longer than the stars above.
It shall never pass away,
So trust His living love to-day.

[Have you not a song for Jesus?]

Have you not a song for Jesus?
All the little buds and flowers,
All the merry birds and breezes,
All the sunbeams and the showers,
Praise Him in their own sweet way!
What have you to sing to-day?
Bring your happiest songs, and sing
For your Saviour and your King.

[Knowing Christ was crucified]

Knowing Christ was crucified,
Knowing that He loves you now
Just as much as when He died
With the thorns upon His brow,—
Stay and think! oh, should not you,
Love this blessèd Saviour too?

293

[Opening flowers I send to you]

Opening flowers I send to you
With a message sweet and true.
They may fade, but Jesus lives,—
Peace and grace and joy He gives.
Come to Him and you will know
What He waiteth to bestow!

Six floral cards for Caswell.

F. R. H.'s Thanks.

FOR A PENCIL-CASE FROM HER BIBLE-CLASS.

O Thou who gatherest with loving arm
The tender lambs, who in each dark alarm
Wilt fold them safely,—listen to my prayer
Borne upwards on the silent morning air!
O Saviour, e'en to these extend Thy love,
And let them know its sweetness,—from above
Pour down on them Thy Spirit's quickening showers
That they may flourish as sweet heaven-born flowers!
O let Thy smile beam on them, let them be
For ever gladdened with its radiancy!
May they reflect Thine image pure and bright
As burnished silver, spotless in Thy sight;
Cleansed by Thy blood from every sinful stain,
Let not its free stream pour for them in vain.
When Thou in glory at the last Great Day
Shalt come, when earth and heaven shall flee away,
When, waking at the archangel's clarion sound,
The sleeping ones arise, and gather round
The great tribunal, then let each one here
At Thy right hand redeemed and saved appear,

294

And in the Book of Life let each one be
Inscribed as in eternal lines by Thee!
O Saviour, let each name be written there,
Not one be wanting in those pages gleaming!
Hear, Shepherd of the lambs, this fervent prayer,
For ever be Thy blessings o'er them streaming!

F. R. H.'s Thanks,

WITH A COPY OF ‘SONGS OF GRACE AND GLORY,’ TO CLARA O., FOR THIRTY BUNCHES OF ASTLEY VIOLETS.

Sweet flowers of Spring,
All fresh and fair to see,
You sent to me;
Sweet holy ‘Songs of Grace
And Glory,’ too,
I send to you.

Grace all-sufficient may
You find, and know
On earth below,
Till God's own glory crown
Your faith and love,
In heaven above.

Inscription in a Copy of ‘Life's Morning.’

By Him ‘Life's Morning’ lovelit be,
Who loved, and lived and died for thee:
So shall thy Noontide never know
Earth's burning thirst, or withering glow:
And thou shalt fear no gathering night;
At Eventide it shall be light.

295

Little Nora.

Far off upon a western shore,
Where wildest billows roam,
Beneath the great grim rocks there stands
A tiny cabin home;

And in it dwells a little one,
With eyes of laughing blue,
And lips as red as any rose
With early sparkling dew.

Her father was a fisher, and
Went out with every tide,
While Nora sat and watched alone
By her sick mother's side.

It was a weary thing to sit
For many a long, long day,
Without a ramble on the beach,
Or e'en a thought of play;

But Nora did not think it hard,
She loved her mother so,
And in a thousand ways she tried
Her earnest love to show.

One day she left the cabin door,
And walked a long, long way—
Now high upon the breezy cliffs,
Now close to ocean spray.

296

She went to seek some remedy
To ease her mother's pain,
Tho' little hope there was that she
Could e'er be well again.

The ruby clouds have curtained o'er
The golden glowing west,
Where 'neath the white-winged wavelets now
The sun hath gone to rest;

But little Nora comes not yet!
The mother's fears arise,
The evening breeze brings nothing save
The seabird's mournful cries.

The twilight hour is passing fast
In weariness and pain,
She waits and listens for her child,
As yet she waits in vain.

Hark, hark! a bounding step is heard
Along the pebbly shore,
And now a tiny hand is laid
Upon the cabin door;

‘Oh, mother, darling mother, I
Have such good news to tell!
Far more than medicine I have brought
To make you glad and well!’

297

More brightly gleamed her joyous eye,
And rosier grew her cheek,
While forth she poured the happy words,
As fast as tongue could speak.

‘I bought the medicine, mother dear,
And turned to come away,
When by me stood a kind grave man,
And gently bade me stay;

‘And then he spoke sweet words to me,
About the Saviour's love,
And of the glorious home where all
His children meet above.

‘He told me Jesus loved us so
That He came down to die,
And suffered all instead of us;—
And then it made me cry:

‘He said His blood was quite enough
To wash our sins away,
And make us fit for Heaven at once
If we should die to-day.

‘So, mother dear, we shall not need
To purgatory go;
If Jesus has forgiven all,
That is enough, you know!’

298

The rosy glow had rested on
The mother's whitening cheek;
'T was fading now, and Nora ceased—
Then came a long wild shriek,—

‘Oh, mother, speak to me once more,—
Oh, is she really dead?’
'T was even so, the hand was cold,
And stilled the throbbing head;

Yes, even while those blessèd words
Like angel-music fell,
Her weary spirit passed away,
But whither! who may tell?

Oh, bitter were the tears which fell
From little Nora's eye,
And many a day and night had passed
Ere they again were dry.

But bitterest were they when she thought,
‘Oh, I can never tell
If with that blessèd Saviour now,
Sweet mother, thou dost dwell!

‘Ah! had I only sooner known
What I have heard to-day,
I would have told her more of Him
Before she went away;

‘For perhaps she did not hear me then,
So she could never know
The way that Jesus Christ has made
To His bright home to go.

299

‘I love Him, yes, I'm sure I do,
Then He will take me home
To be with Him for evermore,
Where sorrow cannot come;

‘But oh, I cannot bear to think,
When I His glory see,
And rest within the Saviour's arms—
Where will my mother be?’

Dear children, you have learnt the way
To that bright home above,
You have been told of Jesus and
His deep and tender love;

In Ireland there are little ones
Whose hearts are very sad,
Oh, won't you try and send to them
Sweet words to make them glad?

‘Come over and Help Us.’

THE IRISH CHILD'S CRY.

Oh, children of England, beyond the blue sea,
Your poor little brothers and sisters are we;
'Tis not much affection or pity we find,
But we hear you are loving and gentle and kind;
So will you not listen a minute or two,
While we tell you a tale that is all of it true?

We live in a cabin, dark, smoky, and poor;
At night we lie down on the hard dirty floor;

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Our clothes are oft tattered, and shoes we have none;
Our food we must beg, as we always have done;
So cold and so hungry, and wretched are we,
It would make you quite sad if you only could see.

There's no one to teach us poor children to read;
There's no one to help us, and no one to lead;
There's no one at all that will tell us the way
To be happy or safe, or teach us to pray:
To the bright place above us we all want to go,
But we cannot,—for how to get there we don't know.

They tell us the Virgin will hear if we call,
But sure in one minute she can't hear us all.
And the saints are too busy in Heaven, we hear;
Then often the priests make us tremble with fear
At the fire of purgatory, which, as they tell,
Is almost as dreadful as going to hell.

Oh, will you not help us, and send us a ray
Of the light of the Gospel, to brighten our way?
Oh, will you not tell us the beautiful story
Of Jesus, who came from His dwelling of glory
To save little children, and not only you,
But even the poor ragged Irish ones too?

The English Child's Reply.

We have heard the call from your fair green Isle;
Our hearts have wept at your saddening tale;
And we long to waken a brighter smile
By a story of love which shall never fail.

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We should like you to come to our Bible-land,
And share our comforts and blessings too;
We would take you all with a sister's hand,
And try to teach and to gladden you.

But you're so far off that it cannot be,
And we have no wings, or to you we'd fly;
So we'll try to send o'er the foaming sea
Sweet words to brighten each heavy eye,—

Sweet words of Him, who was once so poor,
That He had not where to lay His head;
But hath opened now the gleaming door
To the palace of light, where His feast is spread.

There you may enter; He calls each one,—
You're as welcome there as the greatest king!
Come to Him then, for He casts out none,
And nothing at all do you need to bring.

He will change your rags for a robe of white,
An angel-harp, and a crown of gold;
You may dwell for aye in His presence bright,
And the beaming smiles of His love behold.

We will gladly save from our little store
Our pennies, our farthings, from day to day,
And only wish we could do far more;
But for Erin's children we'll always pray.

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The Disappointed Carol Singers.

Oh, must we not sing our Christmas hymn,
And will you not hear our song?
With joyous voice, but with weary limb,
We have roamed the whole day long!

We have thought of the merry Christmas time
For many a week before,
And have gleefully learnt our Christmas rhyme
To carol at your door.

There are no merry larks to wake you now,
No blackbirds in woody dell;
The nightingale loves not the leafless bough,
The humming bee sleeps in his cell.

Oh, winter is gloomy and dark enough,
And must it be silent too?
Are the chorus of winds and the storm-song rough
The only sweet music for you?

But we are the birds of the winter day,
When all else is dark and still;
Then, lady, send us not all away,
And with sorrow our eager hearts fill.

Oh, do not thus wave your beautiful hand,
And bid us unheard to go;
For the carolling time of our little band
Comes but once a year, you know.

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The Happiest Christmas Day.

Sybil, my little one, come away,
I have a plan for Christmas Day:
Put on your hat, and trot with me,
A dear little suffering girl to see.

'Tis not very far, and there's plenty of time,
For the bells have not begun to chime;
So, Sybil, over the sparkling snow
To dear little Lizzie let us go.

Dear little Lizzie is ill and weak,
Only just able to smile and speak.
Yesterday morning I stood by her bed;
Now, shall I tell you what she said?

‘Christmas is coming to-morrow,’ said I.
‘I shall be happy!’ was Lizzie's reply;
‘Happy, so happy!’ I wish you had heard
How sweetly and joyously rang that word.

‘Dear little Lizzie, lying in pain,
With never a hope to be better again,
Lying so lonely, what will you do?
Why will the day be so happy to you?’

Lizzie looked up with a smile as bright
As if she were full of some new delight;
And the sweet little lips just parted to say,
‘I shall think of Jesus all Christmas Day!

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How would you like to take her the spray
Of red-berried holly I gave you to-day?
And what if we gave her the pretty wreath too
That Bertha has made with ivy and yew?

The green and the scarlet would brighten the gloom
Of dear little Lizzie's shady room;
And, Sybil, I know she would like us to sing
A Christmas song of the new-born King.

Sybil, my little one, if we do,
It will help us to ‘think of Jesus’ too;
And Lizzie was right, for that is the way
To have the happiest Christmas Day!

Coming into the Shade.

Out in the midsummer sunshine,
Out in the golden light,
Merrily helping the gardener,
Ever so busy and bright,—
With tiny barrow and rake and hoe,
Helena flitted to and fro.

But the midsummer sun rose higher
Over the flowery spot;
‘I must rest a little now,’ she said,
‘I am so tired and hot.
Oh, let me come to you, and look
At the pictures in your beautiful book.’

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Why we should leave the sunny lawn
She did not understand,
But cheerily, trustfully, Helena laid
In mine, her little brown hand,
And I led her away to a shady room,
To rest in the coolness and the gloom.

For she could not have seen the pictures
Out in that dazzling light;
The book was there with its colours fair,
But the sunshine was too bright.
But in the shade I could let her look
At the pictures in my beautiful book.

‘I have never seen them before,’ she said,
‘I am so glad I came!
And the gardener will manage the flowers, I think,
Without me, just the same!
And I need not trouble at all, you know,
About my barrow and rake and hoe.’

So page after page was gently turned,
As I showed her one by one,
And told her what the pictures meant,
Till the beautiful book was done.
And then—I shall not soon forget
The loving kiss of my tiny pet.

And now—I shall not soon forget
The lesson she had taught,
How from the sunshine into the shade
God's little ones are brought,
That they may see what He could not show
Among the flowers in the summer glow.

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Begin at Once.

[_]

BAND OF HOPE SONG.

Begin at once! In the pleasant days,
While we are all together,
While we can join in prayer and praise,
While we can meet for healthful plays,
In the glow of summer weather.
Begin at once, with heart and hand,
And swell the ranks of our happy band.

Begin at once! For we do not know
What may befall to-morrow!
Many a tempter, many a foe
Lieth in wait where'er you go,
With the snare that leads to sorrow.
Begin at once! nor doubting stand,
But swell the ranks of our happy band.

Begin at once! There is much to do;
Oh, do not wait for others!
Join us to-day !—be brave and true;
Join us to-day !—there's room for you,
And a welcome from your brothers.
Begin at once! for the work is grand
That God has given to our happy band.

Begin at once! In the strength of God,
For that will never fail you!

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Under His banner, bright and broad,
You shall be safe from fear and fraud,
And from all that can assail you.
Begin at once,—with resolute stand,
And swell the ranks of our happy band.

‘That's not the Way at Sea.’

[_]

Reply of Captain Bourchier of the training-ship Goliath, when his boys entreated him to save himself from the burning wreck. 1876.

He stood upon the fiery deck,
Our Captain kind and brave!
He would not leave the burning wreck,
While there was one to save.
We wanted him to go before,
And we would follow fast;
We could not bear to leave him there,
Beside the blazing mast.
But his voice rang out in a cheery shout,
And noble words spoke he,—
‘That's not the way at sea, my boys,
That's not the way at sea!’

So each one did as he was bid,
And into the boats we passed,
While closer came the scorching flame,
And our Captain was the last.
Yet once again he dared his life,
One little lad to save;
Then we pulled to shore from the blaze and roar,
With our Captain kind and brave.

308

In the face of Death, with its fiery breath,
He had stood,—and so would we!
For that's the way at sea, my boys,
For that's the way at sea!

Now let the noble words resound,
And echo far and free,
Wherever English hearts are found,
On English shore or sea.
The iron nerve of duty, joined
With golden vein of love,
Can dare to do, and dare to wait,
With courage from above.
Our Captain's shout among the flames
A watchword long shall be,—
‘That's not the way at sea, my boys,
That's not the way at sea!’

Welcome to Winterdyne.

Francie and Willie, welcome to you!
Alfred and Alice, welcome too!
To an English home and English love
Welcome, each little Irish dove!
Never again we hope to be
Kept apart by an angry sea.
A thousand welcomes, O darlings mine,
When we see you at Winterdyne!

Welcome all to a warm new nest,
Just the place for our doves to rest,

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Through the oaks and beeches looking down
On the winding valley and quaint old town,
Where ivy green on the red rock grows,
And silvery Severn swiftly flows,
With an extra sparkle and glitter and shine
Under the woods of Winterdyne.

On a quiet evening in lovely spring,
In the tall old elms the nightingales sing;
Under the forest in twilight grey,
I have heard them more than a mile away,
Sweeter and louder and far more clear
Than any thrush you ever did hear;
Perhaps, when the evenings grow long and fine,
They will sing to you in Winterdyne.

Little to sadden, and nothing to fear;
Priest and Fenian never come here;
Only the sound of the Protestant bells
Up from the valley pleasantly swells,
And a beautiful arch, to church, is made
Under the sycamore avenue's shade;
You pass where its arching boughs entwine,
Out of the gates of Winterdyne.

Welcome to merry old England! And yet
We know that old Ireland you will not forget;
Many a thought and prayer will fly
Over the mountains of Wales so high,
Over the forest and over the sea,
To the home which no longer yours must be.
But farewells are over, O darlings mine,
Now it is Welcome to Winterdyne!

310

To Jericho and Back.

[_]

Suggested by a child's remark, ‘What a queer place Jericho must be, if all the persons and things get there that are wished there!’

Once on a time I a visit had paid,
All very pleasant as long as I made
Remarks on the topics I fancied or guessed
Any one present was sure to like best.
Then came the trial of courage and skill;—
(Oh for a talent for gilding the pill!)
Out of my pocket with tremulous thought
A card for collecting was cautiously brought.

What the result, there is no need to tell;
Collectors are often received very well,
Sometimes, alas! it is quite the reverse,
So you take up the work for better, for worse;
Still, I was conscious 'twas better to go
After revealing my errand, and so
Forth in the mist of the evening I wandered,
And on changes of tone and of countenance pondered!

Weary the feet, and closing the day;
Is there not danger of losing the way?
Strange are the hills and the forests around;
Where shall a home-leading pathway be found?
I cannot turn back, and I cannot advance;—
Is it a nightmare, or is it a trance?
Shadowy figures are faintly seen,
Spectral and silent, dimly serene;

311

Persons and things in range on range,
All familiar, yet all so strange;
Shades of all things that ever annoyed,
All that ever one wished to avoid.

Strange though it be, I need not fear;
'Tis a wonderful region, and how I came here
I cannot explain, but as it is so,
Let me investigate whether or no,
And enumerate some of the objects I find;
No names shall be mentioned, so no one will mind.

Determining thus, I quickly began
Everything round me more closely to scan,
Hoping to make a report of the case
To friends who had never discovered the place;
Having set out on this singular track,
Not in a hurry was I to get back.

Aid unexpected was close to my side,
Soon I perceived an invisible guide,
Only a voice, clear, quiet, and low,
Telling me all that I wanted to know.

People of every age and class
Under review appeared to pass;
Some I recognised perfectly well,
(More of these than I choose to tell!)
Of others I learnt the name and degree
From the bodiless guide who followed me.

There were several sharp little girls
Who had made remarks on chignons and curls,

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And dozens and dozens of dreadful boys
With special talents for mischief and noise;
Specimens, too, in greatest variety,
Of every sort of bores of society,—
Boorish bores, and bores polite,
People who stay too late at night,
People who make long morning calls,
People who think of nothing but balls,
People who never a move will make,
People who never a hint can take;
Strong-minded bores, and weak-minded too,
Masculine, feminine, not a few;
People who borrow books to lose,
People who will not wipe their shoes,
People who keep your mind on the rack
Lest some pussy escape from the sack;
Over stupid, and over clever;
People who seem to talk for ever;
People who mutter, and people who drawl,
People who will not talk at all.

There were ledgers and day-books in piles on piles,
And letters and papers in files on files;
Foolscap and parchment, deeds and wills;
And oh, such a mass of unpaid bills!

There was a wonderful heap of slates,
Scribbled all over with sums and dates,
With names of counties and names of towns,
With Latin verbs and German nouns,
Vulgar fractions and multiplication,
And plenty more of the like vexation.

313

And finished was seldom seen;
Many a half-worked cushion and screen,
Many a drawing just half done,
Plenty of things in haste begun;
Soon might Patience and Perseverance
Among this collection effect a clearance.

Now and then throughout my stay
Things arrived in a wholesale way;
Sometimes a house came gliding down,
Sometimes a village or even a town;
Sometimes a borough my eyes would meet,
With candidates, voters, and votes complete;
‘But,’ whispered my guide, ‘the person who sent it
Was never the man who could represent it.’

‘The person who sent it! that's not at all clear:
Who has the power to send things here?
What is the power, and how does one use it?
Can any one have it if only they choose it?’
‘Every one has it,’ responded my guide;
‘Oft by yourself has the power been tried,
On yourself too, or you would not be here,
In this region of shadows so dismal and drear.
Only a wish is the power that brings
Hither this medley of persons and things;
Only a wish of the opposite kind
Loosens the spell, as you'll presently find.
Some one has wished you farther away,
That is the reason you came here to-day;
Some one may wish you were speedily near,
Then you no longer may stay with us here.

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Watch your companions, you'll see at a glance
A few are awake, but most in a trance.
Thousands are sent who never know it,
Editors sending many a poet,
Children sending half their teachers,
Listeners sending half their preachers.
There are some who send their dearest friends
If they happen to cross their private ends,
Or give advice which is good and true,
If it's not the thing that they wish to do;
Or to be a little too quick of sight.’
(If they never came back, it would serve them right!)

Plenty of music went on meanwhile,
Not in the Handel Festival style!
For hither most people agree to despatch
New violins, with players to match,
Old pianos that rattle and jingle,
Or Broadwood grands that make your ears tingle
With polkas and waltzes four hours a day;
All barrel organs, whatever they play;
All German bands that won't play in tune;
People who practise too late or too soon;
Contraltos that groan, and sopranos that squall,
Basses that bellow, and tenors that bawl.
Suddenly, while these melodious strains
Filled up the measure of puzzles and pains,
Everything faded away from my gaze,
Into the deepening darkness and haze;
All the unbearable chaos of sound
Melted away into silence profound.

315

How I came back, to this day I don't know,
Only I found myself all in a glow,
Hastening into the parlour to see
If I had kept them all waiting for tea.
Welcoming voices said,—‘We were afraid
You with some neighbour the evening had staid;
Your presence is wanted to brighten and cheer;
Where have you been? we were wishing you here!’
‘Thanks,’ cried I; ‘you have called me away
From a limbo of dreary shades to-day.
May you never the pathway know
Leading away to JERICHO!
Or if you are sent on that dismal track,
May loving wishes soon summon you back!’

My Nest.

My lodging was on the cold rough ground,
And my pillow a rocky shelf;
And the Poet's Corner was full of dust,
And bits of stick and dead leaves, just
An emblem of myself!

But lo! I find that some little birds,
With busy beak and wing,
Have made for me a cosy nest,
The very sort that I like best,
Where I can lie in pleasant rest,
And twitter, if not sing!

316

And the Poet's Corner is swept so clean,
And made so nice and neat,
That really I should feel quite rude,
If I don't, in common gratitude,
Produce some verses on the spot,
And pour them out all fresh and hot,
For my little birds so sweet.

Ethelbert's ‘Coming Home in the Dark.’

Did I tell you how we went to tea,
All by ourselves, with kind Mrs. B.?
And how we came home in the dark so late,
I think it was nearly half-past eight!
We liked the tea, and all the rest,
But coming home in the dark was best,—
Best of all! oh, it was such fun,
The nicest thing we have ever done.
Nurse took Willie, and Bertha took me,—
Bertha is such a great girl, you see;
She sometimes says to us, ‘Now, little boys,
Don't you make such a dreadful noise,
You will wake little Sybil with all your riot!’
And then we have to be—oh, so quiet!
She is nearly eight, and ever so tall;
But Willie and I are not very small;
We are six years old, and our birthdays came
Both on one day, the very same.
So people say we are little twins,
And as much alike as two little pins.

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And Papa likes having a pair of boys,
Although we make such a dreadful noise;
‘Much more amusing,’ we heard him say,
‘Than a couple of odd ones any day!’

It was only so very dark down below
Along the lane where the blackberries grow,
For the little stars were out in the sky,
And we laughed to see them, Willie and I,
For they twinkled away, so quick and bright,
I think they were laughing at us that night.
A bright one got up from behind a tree,
And peeped at Bertha and Willie and me;
And round the corner we saw another
Playing at hide-and-seek with his brother,
Popping out from a cloud, and then
Running behind it to hide again.

And then the kind little Moon came out
To take care of the Stars as they played about;
She looked so quiet and good, we thought
That perhaps they went to her school to be taught,
And to learn from her how to shine so bright;
But Grandmamma told us we did not guess right,
For the Moon goes to school herself to the Sun:
Do you think she meant it only in fun?

Then all of a sudden the Wind ran by,
And flew up to kiss the Stars in the sky;
He tucked them up, and said good-night,
And drew the curtain round them tight.
That was a great dark cloud, you see,
That hid the Stars from Willie and me.
I think they were sorry to go to bed,
For they did not look tired at all, we said;

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And one or two of them tried to peep;
But very soon they were all asleep,
For the Wind kept singing their lullaby,
And we felt quite vexed with him, Willie and I.

I think the Moon asked if she might not stay
To light us a little bit more of the way,
But he whistled quite loud, and we thought he said,
‘No, no, no! you must go to bed!’
The good little Moon did what she was bid,
And under the curtains her pretty face hid;
And then it got darker and darker still;
Nurse said she was setting behind the hill.
So perhaps she was tired, and glad to go;
It's a long way across the sky, you know.

We were not afraid, but we did not talk
As we came along the avenue walk;
And we did not quite like looking back,
For the pretty green trees were all quite black.
But I whispered to Willie that God was there,
And we need not be frightened, for He would take care.

And then all at once we saw the light
In the dining-room window, ever so bright;
And up we came through the little gate,—
Oh, it was so nice to come home so late!
And then we gave a famous shout,
For dear Mamma herself came out
To meet us, just as we got to the door;
But she had not expected us home before.
And then we took it by turns to talk,
And tell them about the tea and the walk;
And Papa did laugh so,—we wondered why!
At what we told him, Willie and I.

319

Songs.

321

National Hymn.

[_]

WRITTEN BY REQUEST TO MUSIC BY ROSSINI.

O Lord most high,
Who art God and Father,
Hear Thou our cry,
While Thy children gather!
Lord of Peace, oh hearken,
Though war-clouds darken!
Do Thou our labours bless,
And crown them with success!

Bend from Thy glory now,
Hear each suppliant vow!
And on our children pour
Blessings evermore.
Guarded by Thee,
England shall be
Bright in Thy light,
Strong in Thy might,
Glorious and free!

Hero and saint,
Victors at last,
Bid us not faint,
But follow, follow fast.

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Make us, we pray,
Loyal as they,
Faithful and brave,
Our country to save!

When in the grim fight,
Pierceth the dim light,
Through the cleft ranks that shall close no more,
Fearfully flashing,
Awfully crashing,
Death-furrows follow the cannon's roar.
When wounded lie,
Ready to die;
When death is braved,
That life may be saved;
Teach us to show
Mercy with might,
Pardon the foe,
Crown Thou the right!

Father, hear us!
Thou art near us!
Guard and cheer us
By Thy strong hand!
Then Art resplendent,
Labour attendant,
Shall bless our land!

Lord, bless the land we love,
God save our Queen!

323

Scotland's Welcome to H.R.H. Princess Louise.

Sweet Rose of the South! contented to rest
In the fair island home which thy presence has blessed:
From the Highlands resounding, glad welcome shall float,
And the Lowlands re-echo the jubilant note.

Merry England has loved thee and cherished thee long,
Her blessings go with thee in prayer and in song;
Bonnie Scotland has won thee, and lays at thy feet
Love tender and fervent, love loyal and sweet.

Chorus.
—Our own bonnie Scotland with welcome shall ring,
While greeting and homage we loyally bring;
The crown of our love shall thy diadem be,
And the throne of our hearts is waiting for thee.

Then come, like the sunrise that gilds with a smile
The dark mountains and valleys of lonely Argyle;
Golden splendour shall fall on the pale northern snow,
And with roselight of love the purple shall glow.

Though the voice that should bless, and the hand that should seal,
Is ‘away,’ and at rest in ‘the land o’ the leal,’
May the God of thy father look graciously down,
With blessings on blessings thy gladness to crown.

324

Severn Song.

The Severn flow is soft and fair, as slowly
The light grows dim;
The sunset glow is soft and full, and holy
As evening hymn.
We float along beneath the forest darkling,
Blending with song the silence of the hour:
We swiftly glide where rapids bright and sparkling
Bear us beside the ruddy rock and tower.
O softly, softly row in measured time,
While nearer, nearer swells the curfew chime.
Now, now again adown the current shooting,
New joy we hail;
While through the forest thrills the fairy fluting
Of nightingale.
O sweet and sweeter that hidden lay,
That in the twilight dies away.
Then merrily onward! O merrily row!
And smoothly swift, O Severn, flow!

The Severn flow is swift and strong, as neareth
The home we love;
The sunset glow has paled and passed, and cleareth
The heaven above.
The children's eyes will soon be gently closing,
Calm stars arise and shine on earth instead;
And through the night, all peacefully reposing,
Angels of light shall guard each tiny bed.
O swiftly, swiftly row o'er darkening stream,
While nearer, nearer shines the home lamp's gleam.

325

Now, now awake the song of purest thrilling,
Of home and love;
And call the echoes forth, with music filling
The rocks above.
Our song is sweetest as falls the day,
For we are on our homeward way:
Then merrily onward! O merrily row!
And smoothly swift, O Severn, flow!

For Charity.

The sun is burning, O little maiden,
Thou hast sweet water, is it for me?
I am so thirsty, so heavy-laden,
Give me cool water, for charity!
Sparkling and gleaming,
The crystal streaming
Seems but awaiting my only plea—
I am so thirsty, so heavy-laden,
Give me cool water, for charity!

O gentle maiden, I thirst no longer,
But sweeter waters thou hast for me:
Then pour them freely, from fountain stronger,
Sweet thoughts of kindness, for charity!
The world is only
A pathway lonely,
And hearts are waiting for sympathy;
Then pour them freely from fountain stronger
Sweet thoughts of kindness, for charity!

326

O little maiden, 'tis thine to brighten,
Like sparkling waters, life's lonely lea;
All grief to soften, all joy to heighten
With love and gladness, for charity!
Thus onward flowing,
All good bestowing,
A stream of blessing thy life shall be,
All grief to brighten, all joy to heighten
With love and gladness, for charity!

The Devonshire Yeoman's Home.

Ten years ago to-day our wedding bells were rung,
When all along the winding lane wild roses hung;
And now the roses cluster on our own white walls,
And down the lane resound our merry children's calls.
There's sunshine on the moor and on the glittering sea,
And sunshine in our hearts as fresh and fair and free;
We would not change our lot for London gold,
For home, our own sweet home, is sweeter now tenfold.

No city seasons come our pleasant year to mar;
The hay—the fruit—the harvest-time are merrier far,
For pictures and for music rare we need but look
Around our home, and listen to the grand old Book.
The hours flow on from morning prayer to evening praise,
With trust that lightens, love that brightens darkest days;
For though ten years have passed, love grows not old,
And home, our own dear home, is dearer now tenfold.

327

The Dawn of May.

Come away, come away, in the dawn of May,
When the dew is sparkling bright;
When the woods are seen
All in golden green
In the crystal, crystal light.
The sweet perfume of violet bloom,
And hawthorn fragrance rare,
From the cool mossy shade,
Or the warm sunny glade,
Is filling all the air.

Come away, come away, in the dawn of May,
When the lark and the white cloud meet;
When the tuneful breeze,
In the old oak trees,
Is harping, harping sweet.
With joyous thrill and merry trill,
The thrush and blackbird vie,
As they chant loving lays,
And a full song of praise,
To the Lord of earth and sky.

Come away, come away, in the dawn of May,
In the pearly morning-time,
When the cowslips spring,
And the blue-bells ring
Their fairy, fairy chime.

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With happy song, we march along,
And carol on our way,
One in heart, one in voice,
Let us all now rejoice
In the sunny dawn of May.

The Tyrolese Spring Song.

The meadows rejoice in their verdure so bright,
And glisten with pearl drops of dew,
The glaciers are gleaming in radiant light,
The breezes are fitful and few.
From heaven coming down, like a golden-haired child,
Fair Spring o'er the earth has sparklingly smiled,
With flower-twined staff, he goes forth o'er the wild.

The song of the birds and the herdsman's glad lay
Are heard in the morning so bright;
They sing when the bells, at the closing of day,
Awaken the stars of the night.
The swell of the joyous and heart-stirring song
Through mountain and valley is pealing along,
In a tide of rejoicing, all glorious and strong.

Then a fount of emotion awakes in the heart,
And the spirit is mightily stirred,
The Tyrolese longs from his roof to depart
To wander and roam as he will;
When the meadows rejoice in their emerald glow,
The sons of the mountain forth joyously go,
The world in its beauty and gladness to know.

329

My Messengers.

I said to the merry birds of the woods,
‘Carry a song to the Fair One!’
They twittered and trilled, for they quite understood,
And flew away blithely to bear one.
Then listen, if, tapping thy window sill,
They come with their chirping and singing,
O listen! for over forest and hill,
My message of love they are bringing.

I said to the lilies, ‘Carry for me,
Carry a smile to the Sweetest!’
They nodded and said, ‘Our sister is she,
That loveliest lily thou greetest.
O gather and send us,’ they whispered to me,
‘And bid us bloom fragrantly near her,
To waken her smile, rejoicing to be
Thy message of comfort to cheer her.’

I said to the golden stars of night,
‘O carry my love to the Dearest!
In darkness surrounding with silver light
The Brightest, the ever Nearest!’
And watchest thou now, my own, my love,
In weary and lonely sadness?
Look up to the stars in the heaven,
They bear thee my message of gladness.

330

God keep Thee.

O dark was the day when I left her alone,
My darling, so gentle, so dear!
O sad, yet O sweet was her silvery tone,
As she said, with a glistening tear:—
‘Oh, must thou go forth in the cold world to-day,
And leave me, to wander so far, far away?
Oh, think of the moments of joy that are flown,
And remember the love that is ever thine own!
Oh, Father, I pray, protect him alway,
Protect by night and by day!’
I left thee, indeed, in the cold world to roam,
Yet, darling, my heart stayed behind!
In dreams I come back to the dear little home,
And unaltered is all that I find.
And then, as I listen, I hear a soft tone
Float up from thy lips to the emerald throne,
‘Oh, keep him, and bless him, by night and by day,
And guard him for me while so far, far away.
Oh, Father, I pray, protect him alway,
Protect by night and by day!’

The ocean of life with its hurrying swell
Has drifted me far on its tide,
But only and ever my true heart shall dwell
In quiet and love at thy side.
And when all the wandering and drifting are o'er,
My rest and my haven, my golden-bright shore,

331

My joy, and my home, and my heart too, shall be
For ever, belovèd, for ever with thee!
Oh, Father, I pray, protect her alway,
Protect by night and by day!

Rose of Roses.

Oh, the treasures of the Spring,
Crimson, blue, and golden!
Scattered from her radiant wing,
Nothing is withholden.
Myriad blossoms ope each hour,
Who shall tell the fairest?
But I miss the sweetest flower,
Rose, of roses rarest.

Oh, the glory of the light,
Through the noontide beaming!
Oh, the stars of purple light,
Through the darkness gleaming!
But the star of softest ray,
Clearest, purest, whitest,
Shineth only far away,
Star, of stars the brightest!

Oh, the music everywhere!
Joyous larks are singing,
Rivulets are flowing fair,
Merry chimes are ringing.
But I miss from day to day
Music that is dearest,
Even thine, though far away,
Heart, of hearts the nearest.

332

Hast Thou a Thought?

When home I came after many a day
Of longing and waiting so far away,
I sought the path in the sunset glow,
Where the bright eyes watched for me long ago.
And the fair night fell as I whispered low,
‘Hast thou a thought of the wandered now?’

Then softly glimmered a sudden light,
And I saw thee lean from the casement bright,
And a name floated forth from a voice so sweet!
No doubting of heart and no lingering of feet!
For I hastened near, and I whispered low,
‘Hast thou a thought for the wanderer now?’

Then silently nestled my own sweet bird,
With a joy too deep for a song or word;
And I question no more, for the answer I know!
So I ask not aloud, and I ask not low,
Whether every night, whether every day,
Thou hadst a thought of thy love far away!

My Welcome.

I have waited for thy coming, love,
As the song-bird waits for spring,
Ere the echo of his merry lay
Makes the forest arches ring;

333

But when the spring is gone, love,
And summer's glory fills,
How musical the hush, love,
Between the shadowy hills.

I have waited for thy coming, love,
Yet bring to greet thee near,
Nor laugh, nor words, nor carol gay,
But stillness and a tear;
But if I know thy heart, love,
And if thou readest mine,
This welcome is the best, love,
The truest, fondest sign.

A Wife's Letter.

[_]

‘Not that I've anything special to say, but only that it comes from me.’—E. to G., Jan. 11, 1869.

My Own!
You won't expect to hear
As you have only just departed,
But I'll be better than you fear,
And write as soon as you have started.
It seems a long and tiresome day;
I'm merely writing, as you see,
Not that I've anyting to say,
But only that it comes from me.

I watched the carriage out of sight,
And then came back to do my work;
I could not set the stitches right,
And so for once the task I'll shirk;

334

I've put the children's frocks away
To write a line or two to thee,
Not that I've anything to say,
But only that it comes from me.

I hope the train will not be late,
And that it will not freeze or rain,
And oh! if you should have to wait,
Be sure you don't catch cold again.
I wish this moment on the way
To overtake you I could be!
Not that I've anything to say,
But only to be nearer thee.

'Tis six-and-twenty hours almost
Before I see you, as I've reckoned;
But you'll get this by early post,
And you'll be home before the second.
I'd like to sit and write all day
To Some One, if my hands were free,
Not that I've anything to say,
But only that it comes from me.

Though this is such a stupid letter,
With love and kisses 'tis impearled;
I know that you will like it better
Than all the poems in the world.
I trust that all is safe and well,
Although I am not there to see;
I've nothing else, my Own, to tell,
But only that this comes from me.

335

The Husband's Reply.

Five minutes all I have to spare,
But these, my Own, I give to you!
Your precious letter's lying there,
So full and fond, so dear and true.
I think you'll hardly hope to hear,
As I shall soon be home again,
But you'll get this at seven, dear,
I'm due at eight, and then—oh then!

A hurried word or two assures
That all is safe and well, my dove.
My notes are not so long as yours,
Though worth as much in golden love.
So where I've been, and whom I've seen,
And how, and why, and what, and when,
I'll tell you when we meet, my queen,
At eight o'clock,—and then—oh then!

Only for One.

I have a smile my friends to greet,
Hearty and pleasant for all I meet,
Hidden from none:
But I have a smile that they do not know,
Lit by a deeper, tenderer glow,
And I keep it bright in my heart below,
Only for one!

336

I have a song for every ear,
Leaving an echo to soothe and cheer
When it is done:
But I have a music of truer beat,
Not to be poured at the great world's feet,
Richer and softer and far more sweet,
Only for one!

I have a love for all who care
Aught of its warmth to claim, or share,
Free as the sun;
But I have a love which I do not hint,
Gold that is stamped with my soul's imprint,
A wealth of love, both mine and mint,
Only for one!

One for the Other.

Was it ‘only for one,’ dear, ‘only for one,’
That the smile, and the song, and the love should be?
Then a smile shall flash, and a song shall flow,
And a deep, deep love shall thrill and glow,
Only for thee, dear, only for thee!
For so shall it be,
One for the other—nevermore lonely,
One for the other—ever and only.

The blossoms that now at my feet you lay
Shall be golden fruit for you and me,
When spring and summer have passed away,
And softly falls the autumn day,

337

Like the close of a holy melody.
For so shall it be,
One for the other—nevermore lonely,
One for the other—ever and only.

Yes! one for the other, blessing and blessed,
In the strength of His gladness, calm and bright,
But with more of blessing and love for all,
The smile shall beam, and the song shall fall,
Touching the shadows around with light,—
Because it shall be
One for the other—nevermore lonely,
One for the other—ever and only!

Thinking together, or Gravitation.

Of what are you thinking now, dear,
Now that good-night is said,
Now that the children's eyes are shut,
And the stars shine out instead;
Now that the far church-clock sounds near,
For the world is all so still,
And the cottage twinkle has long gone out
On the slope of the fir-crowned hill?

Of what are you thinking now, dear?
Could a thought-flash reach me here,
The message would not surprise me,
But only strengthen and cheer.

338

For love has told it already,
That seer so bold and true!
I know you are thinking of me, dear,
For I am thinking of you.

I know you are thinking of me, dear,
For the whirl of the day hath ceased,
The circling force is spent at last,
And our spirits are released;
And heart to heart hath swiftly turned
After the lonely strife,
For each is the centre of each, dear,
By the law of our truest life.

We have but one other thought, dear,
In these quiet, restful hours,
And that is of Him whose love is twined
In a threefold cord with ours.
So you are thinking of me, dear,
And I am thinking of you,
And He is thinking of us both:
Is it not sweet and true?

There is Music by the River.

There is music by the river,
And music by the sea,
And music in the waterfall
That gusheth glad and free,

339

There is music in the brooklet
That singeth all alone,
There is music in the fountain
With its silver-tinkling tone.

But the music of thy spirit
Is sweeter far to me
Than the melody of rivers,
Or the anthems of the sea.
Why should I dwell in silence
When the music is so near
That may overflow my spirit
So full, so clear!
Oh! let me listen!

There is music in the forest,
A myriad-voicèd song;
And music on the mountains
As the great winds rush along:
There is music in the gladness
Of morning's merry light,
And in silence of the noontide,
And in hush of starry night.

But a deeper, holier music
Is the music of thy soul,
And I think the angels listen
As its starry echoes roll.
Why should I dwell in silence
When the music that is thine
May overflow my spirit
And blend—with mine!
Oh! let me listen!

340

‘The Shining Light, that shineth more and more unto the Perfect Day.’

[_]

Prov. iv. 18.

A year ago the gold light
Sweet morning made for me;
A tender and untold light,
Like music on the sea.
Light and music twining
In melodious glory,
A rare and radiant shining
On my changing story.

To-day the golden sunlight
Is full and broad and strong;
The glory of the One light
Must overflow in song;
Song that floweth ever,
Sweeter every day,
Song whose echoes never,
Never die away.

How shall the light be clearer
That is so bright to-day?
How shall the hope be dearer
That pours such joyous ray?
I am only waiting
For the answer golden,
What faith is antedating
Shall not be withholden.

341

Golden Land.

Far from home alone I wander
Over mountain and pathless wave,
But the fair land that shineth yonder
Claimeth the love that erst it gave
Golden Land, so far, so nearing!
Land of those who wait for me!
Ever brighter the vision cheering,
Glden Land, I haste to thee!

On my path a golden sunlight
Softly falls where'er I roam,
And I know it is the one light
Both of exile and of home.
Golden Land, so far, so near,
On my heart engraven clear,
Though I wander from strand to strand,
Dwells my heart in that Golden Land.

Twilight Voices.

(IN ILLNESS.)

What are the whispering voices
That awake at twilight fall?
Do they come from the golden sunset
With their haunting, haunting call?
They tell me of breezy spring-times,
And of dreamy summer eves,
And of snow-wreaths merrily shaken
From the shining ivy leaves.

342

But the far-off treble changeth
To a tenor tone, and so
I know that the voices tell me
Only of long ago.
I hear you, I hear you,
In the gentle twilight fall
Come to me, come!
With your haunting, haunting call.

What are the tuneful voices
That awake at early dawn?
Do they come from the orient portals
Of the palace of the morn?
They tell of a Golden City
With pearl and jasper bright,
And of shining forms that beckon
From the pure and dazzling light.
Then a rush of far-off harpings
Blends with the voices clear,
And I know that the night is passing,
And I know that the day is near!
I hear you, I hear you,
Sweet voices of the dawn!
Come to me, come!
In the early, early morn.

343

Hymns.

345

Prayer before Church.

Lord, I am in Thy house of prayer,
Oh, teach me rightly how to pray;
Incline to me Thy gracious ear,
And listen, Lord, to what I say.

Give me, O Lord, a praying heart,
And also an attentive ear;
Help me to choose the better part,
And teach me Thee to love and fear.

A Prayer.

Lord, in mercy pardon me
All that I this day have done:
Sins of every kind 'gainst Thee,
O forgive them through Thy Son.

Make me, Jesus, like to Thee,
Gentle, holy, meek, and mild,
My transgressions pardon me,
O forgive a sinful child.

346

Gracious Spirit, listen Thou,
Enter in my willing heart,
Enter and possess it now,
Never, Lord, from me depart.

O eternal Three in One,
Condescend to bend Thine ear;
Help me still towards heaven to run,
Answer now my humble prayer.

Thoughts.

[_]

On entering church when the sunshine streamed through the large window, so that its outline was completely lost in the overpowering brilliance.

Oh, Thou, the Sun of Righteousness,
Whose bright rays every cloud dispel,
E'en yon fair brilliance is far less
Than that wherein Thou aye dost dwell.

Oh, Thou, my precious Saviour, shine
In all Thy radiance on my soul;
Oh, let me know what love is Thine,
Oh, let me reach this long-sought goal.

To me, to me Thy glory show,
Shall ever be my earnest prayer;
Grant me to leave the things below,
And in that perfect bliss to share,

347

Which to Thy faithful ones is given.
Oh, let Thy glory on me beam,
And let me taste the joys of heaven,
Before the close of life's strange dream.

Soon, Lord, reveal Thyself to me;
How long must I thus sadly wait?
My spirit yearns Thyself to see,
Oh, hear me in Thy mercy great!

‘He that Overcometh.’

[_]

Rev. iii. 5.

‘He that overcometh in the fight
Shall be clothed in raiment white and pure;
In the ever-blessèd book of life
Shall his name eternally endure.’

‘When my Father on His dazzling throne
Sits, with myriad angels all around,
I'll confess his name, to men unknown;
Heaven and earth shall listen to the sound.’

Who, with such a glorious end in view,
Would not in the heavenly conflict join?
Strange that willing soldiers are so few,
Strange so many faint, who once were Thine.

Oh, it is a service blest indeed!
Though the strife be long, the end is sure;
And our Leader gives to all who need
Grace that they may to the end endure.

348

'Neath Thy standard be my place, O Lord:
Grant me strength and grace, that I ere long
May obtain that rich and full reward.
Then, as conquering I sheath my sword,
Thou, my Captain, shall be all my song.

A Song of Welcome.

(FOR THE ST. NICHOLAS SUNDAY SCHOOL.)

Oh God, with grateful hearts we come
Thy goodness to adore,
While we our Pastor welcome home
To England's happy shore.

For Thy delivering love we praise,
And Thy restoring hand,—
Oh spare him yet for long, long days
To this our little band.

Thy Spirit's fulness on him rest,
Thy love his sunshine be!
And may he still, while doubly blest,
A blessing be from Thee.

When the Chief Shepherd shall appear
May he receive, we pray,
A crown of glory bright and clear
That fadeth not away.

349

‘The Lord is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and of great mercy.’—

Ps. cxlv. 8.

The Lord is gracious—full of grace
To those who seek through Christ His face;
O come then, sinner, taste and see
The fulness of His love for thee.

Full of compassion is His heart,
Each weary sigh, each rankling smart
Is known to Him whom we adore,
The Saviour who our sorrows bore.

To anger slow! though every hour
Provoking His destroying power;
How strange, such words of peace to give,
Through Him who died that we might live.

Great mercy! Yet another seal
To all His gracious words reveal;
Great mercy for the greatly stained,
For those who mercy long disdained.

We little know God's thoughts to man,
They are too great for us to scan:
Thou art too high and we too low,
The wonders of Thy love to know.

But crown Thy mercies, Lord, and send
Thy Spirit as our Teacher-Friend;
That we may see, and feel, and praise
The grace and love of all Thy ways!

350

[O Spirit of our Triune Lord]

‘The Spirit proceeding from the Father and the Son.’

O Spirit of our Triune Lord,
Known by Thy might, unseen but felt,
Be Thy sweet influence now outpoured,
With power to rouse, with love to melt.

O Holy One, who dost proceed
Both from the Father and the Son,
Reveal to us our sin and need,
And what our Saviour Christ hath done.

O Thou, whose love, exceeding great,
Sent Thine own Son to bleed and die,
For Thy good Spirit's power we wait,
Thy glorious grace to testify.

New Year Hymn.

Jesus, blessèd Saviour,
Help us now to raise
Songs of glad thanksgiving,
Songs of holy praise.
O how kind and gracious
Thou hast always been!
O how many blessings
Every day has seen!
Jesus, blessèd Saviour,
Now our praises hear,
For Thy grace and favour
Crowning all the year.

351

Jesus, holy Saviour,
Only Thou canst tell
How we often stumbled,
How we often fell!
All our sins (so many!),
Saviour, Thou dost know;
In Thy blood most precious,
Wash us white as snow.
Jesus, blessèd Saviour,
Keep us in Thy fear,
Let Thy grace and favour
Pardon all the year.

Jesus, loving Saviour,
Only Thou dost know
All that may befall us
As we onward go.
So we humbly pray Thee,
Take us by the hand,
Lead us ever upward
To the Better Land.
Jesus, blessèd Saviour,
Keep us ever near,
Let Thy grace and favour
Shield us all the year.

Jesus, precious Saviour,
Make us all Thine own,
Make us Thine for ever,
Make us Thine alone.

352

Let each day, each moment,
Of this glad New-year,
Be for Jesus only,
Jesus, Saviour dear.
Then, O blessèd Saviour,
Never need we fear,
For Thy grace and favour
Crown our bright New-year!

Hymn for Ireland.

‘The isles shall wait upon Me, and on Mine arm shall they trust.’ —Isa. li. 5.

Father, we would plead Thy promise, bending at Thy glorious throne,
That the isles shall wait upon Thee, trusting in Thine arm alone!
One bright isle we bring before Thee, while in faith Thy children pray
For a full and mighty blessing, with united voice to-day.

Gracious Saviour, look in mercy on this Island of the West,
Win the wandering and the weary with Thy pardon and Thy rest:
As the only Friend and Saviour let Thy blessèd name be owned,
Who hast shed Thy blood most precious, and for ever hast atoned!

Blessèd Spirit, lift Thy standard, pour Thy grace, and shed Thy light!
Lift the veil and loose the fetter; come with new and quickening might;

353

Make the desert places blossom, shower Thy sevenfold gifts abroad;
Make Thy servants wise and stedfast, valiant for the truth of God.

Triune God of grace and glory, be the isle for which we plead
Shielded, succoured with Thy blessing, strong in every hour of need;
Flooded with Thy truth and glory (glowing sunlight from above),
And encompassed with the ocean of Thine everlasting love.

Oh, surround Thy throne of power with Thine emerald bow of peace:
Bid the wailing, and the warring, and the wild confusion cease.
Thou remainest King for ever,—Thou shalt reign, and earth adore!
Thine the kindom, Thine the power, Thine the glory evermore.

Church Missionary Jubilee Hymn.

‘He shall see of the travail of His soul, and shall be satisfied.’— Isa. liii. 11.

Rejoice with Jesus Christ to-day,
All ye who love His holy sway!
The travail of His soul is past,
He shall be satisfied at last.

354

Rejoice with Him, rejoice indeed,
For He shall see His chosen seed!
But ours the trust, the grand employ,
To work out this divinest joy.

Of all His own He loseth none,
They shall be gathered one by one;
He gathereth the smallest grain,
His travail shall not be in vain.

Arise and work! arise and pray
That He would haste the dawning day!
And let the silver trumpet sound,
Wherever Satan's slaves are found.

The vanquished foe shall soon be stilled,
The conquering Saviour's joy fulfilled,
Fulfilled in us, fulfilled in them,
His crown, His royal diadem.

Soon, soon our waiting eyes shall see
The Saviour's mighty Jubilee!
His harvest-joy is filling fast,
He shall be satisfied at last!

Thy Father Waits for Thee.

Wanderer from thy Father's home,
So full of sin, so far away,
Wilt thou any longer roam?
Oh, wilt thou not return to-day?

355

Wilt thou? Oh, He knows it all,
Thy Father sees, He meets thee here!
Wilt thou? Hear His tender call,
‘Return, return!’ while He is near.

He is here! His loving voice
Hath reached thee, though so far away!
He is waiting to rejoice,
O wandering one, o'er thee to-day.
Waiting, waiting to bestow
His perfect pardon, full and free;
Waiting, waiting till thou know
His wealth of love for thee, for thee!

Rise and go! Thy Father waits
To welcome and receive and bless;
Thou shalt tread His palace gates
In royal robe of righteousness.
Thine shall be His heart of love,
And thine His smile, and thine His home,
Thine His joy, all joys above—
O wandering child, no longer roam!

Will You not Come?

Will you not come to Him for Life?
Why will ye die, oh, why?
He gave His life for you, for you!
The gift is free, the word is true!
Will you not come? oh, why will you die?

356

Will you not come to Him for Peace?
Peace through His cross alone!
He shed His precious blood for you;
The gift is free, the word is true!
He is our Peace—oh, is He your own?

Will you not come to Him for Rest?
All that are weary, come!
The rest He gives is deep and true,
'Tis offered now, 'tis offered you!
Rest in His love and rest in His home.

Will you not come to Him for Joy?
Will you not come for this?
He laid His joys aside for you,
To give you joy so sweet, so true:
Sorrowing heart, oh, drink of the bliss!

Will you not come to Him for Love,
Love that can fill the heart?
Exceeding great, exceeding free!
He loveth you, He loveth me!
Will you not come? Why stand you apart?

Will you not come to Him for all?
Will you not ‘taste and see?’
He waits to give it all to you,
The gifts are free, the words are true!
Jesus is calling, ‘Come unto Me!’

357

What will You do without Him?

I could not do without Him!
Jesus is more to me
Than all the richest, fairest gifts
Of earth could ever be.
But the more I find Him precious—
And the more I find Him true—
The more I long for you to find
What He can be to you.

You need not do without Him,
For He is passing by,
He is waiting to be gracious,
Only waiting for your cry;
He is waiting to receive you—
To make you all His own!
Why will you do without Him,
And wander on alone?

Why will you do without Him?
Is He not kind indeed?
Did He not die to save you?
Is He not all you need?
Do you not want a Saviour?
Do you not want a Friend?
One who will love you faithfully,
And love you to the end?

Why will you do without Him?
The word of God is true,

358

The world is passing to its doom—
And you are passing too.
It may be no to-morrow
Shall dawn on you or me;
Why will you run the awful risk
Of all eternity?

What will you do without Him,
In the long and dreary day
Of trouble and perplexity,
When you do not know the way,
And no one else can help you,
And no one guides you right,
And hope comes not with morning,
And rest comes not with night?

You could not do without Him,
If once He made you see
The fetters that enchain you,
Till He hath set you free:
If once you saw the fearful load
Of sin upon your soul—
The hidden plague that ends in death,
Unless He makes you whole.

What will you do without Him
When death is drawing near?
Without His love—the only love
That casts out every fear;
When the shadow-valley opens,
Unlighted and unknown,
And the terrors of its darkness
Must all be passed alone!

359

What will you do without Him,
When the great white throne is set,
And the Judge who never can mistake,
And never can forget,—
The Judge whom you have never here
As Friend and Saviour sought,
Shall summon you to give account
Of deed and word and thought?

What will you do without Him,
When He hath shut the door,
And you are left outside, because
You would not come before?
When it is no use knocking,
No use to stand and wait,
For the word of doom tolls through your heart,
That terrible ‘Too late!’

You cannot do without Him
There is no other Name
By which you ever can be saved,
No way, no hope, no claim!
Without Him—everlasting loss
Of love, and life, and light!
Without Him—everlasting woe,
And everlasting night.

But with Him—oh! with Jesus!
Are any words so blest?
With Jesus, everlasting joy
And everlasting rest!

360

With Jesus,—all the empty heart
Filled with His perfect love;
With Jesus,—perfect peace below,
And perfect bliss above.

Why should you do without Him?
It is not yet too late;
He has not closed the day of grace,
He has not shut the gate.
He calls you!—hush! He calls you!
He would not have you go
Another step without Him,
Because He loves you so.

He would not do without you!
He calls and calls again—
‘Come unto Me! Come unto Me!’
Oh, shall He call in vain?
He wants to have you with Him;
Do you not want Him too?
You cannot do without Him,
And He wants—even you.

‘Forgiven—even until Now.’

FOR NEW YEAR'S DAY 1879.

[_]

(Num. xiv. 19.)

‘Thou hast forgiven—even until now!’
We bless Thee, Lord, for this,
And take Thy great forgiveness as we bow
In depth of sorrowing bliss;

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While over all the long, regretful past
This veil of wondrous grace Thy sovereign hand doth cast.

‘Forgiven until now!’ For Jesus died
To take our sins away;
His Blood was shed, and still the infinite tide
Flows full and deep to-day.
He paid the debt; we own it, and go free!
The cancelled bond is cast in Love's unfathomed sea.

‘Forgiven until now!’ For God is true,
Faithful and just is He!
Forgiving, cleansing, making all things new!
‘Who is a God like Thee?’
O precious blood of Christ, that saves and heals,
While all its cleansing might the Holy Ghost reveals.

Yes, ‘even until now!’ And so we stand,
Forgiven, loved, and blessed;
And, covered in the shadow of God's hand,
Believing, are at rest.
The one great load is lifted from the soul,
That henceforth on the Lord all burdens we may roll.

Yes, ‘even until now!’ Then let us press
With free and willing feet
Along the King's highway of holiness,
Until we gain the street
Of golden crystal, praising purely when
We see our pardoning Lord; forgiven until then!

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He Hath Done it!

‘I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins: return unto Me; for I have redeemed thee. Sing, O ye heavens; for the Lord hath done it.’— Isa. xliv. 22, 23.

‘I know that, whatsoever God doeth, it shall be for ever: nothing can be put to it, nor anything taken from it.’— Eccles. iii. 14.

Sing, O heavens! the Lord hath done it!
Sound it forth o'er land and sea!
Jesus says, ‘I have redeemed thee,
Now return, return to Me.’
Oh return, for His own life-blood
Paid the ransom, made us free
Evermore and evermore.

For I know that what He doeth
Stands for ever, fixed and true;
Nothing can be added to it,
Nothing left for us to do;
Nothing can be taken from it,
Done for me and done for you,
Evermore and evermore.

Listen now! the Lord hath done it!
For He loved us unto death;
It is finished! He has saved us!
Only trust to what He saith.
He hath done it! Come and bless Him,
Spend in praise your ransomed breath
Evermore and evermore.

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O believe the Lord hath done it!
Wherefore linger? wherefore doubt?
All the cloud of black transgression
He Himself hath blotted out.
He hath done it! Come and bless Him,
Swell the grand thanksgiving shout
Evermore and evermore.

Asking.

[_]

Luke xi. 13.

O Heavenly Father, Thou hast told
Of a Gift more precious than pearls and gold:
A Gift that is free to every one,
Through Jesus Christ, Thy only Son:
For His sake, give it to me.

Oh, give it to me! for Jesus said,
That a father giveth his children bread,
And how much more Thou wilt surely give
The Gift by which the dead shall live!
For Christ's sake, give it to me.

If Thou hast said it, I must believe
It is only ‘ask’ and I shall receive;
If Thou hast said it, it must be true,
And there's nothing else for me to do!
For Christ's sake, give it to me.

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So I come and ask, because my need
Is very great and real indeed.
On the strength of Thy word I come and say,
Oh, let Thy word come true to-day!
For Christ's sake, give it to me!

Love for Love.

[_]

1 John iv. 16.

Knowing that the God on high,
With a tender Father's grace,
Waits to hear your faintest cry,
Waits to show a Father's face,—
Stay and think!—oh, should not you
Love this gracious Father too?

Knowing Christ was crucified,
Knowing that He loves you now
Just as much as when He died
With the thorns upon His brow,—
Stay and think!—oh, should not you
Love this blessèd Saviour too?

Knowing that a Spirit strives
With your weary, wandering heart,
Who can change the restless lives,
Pure and perfect peace impart,—
Stay and think!—oh, should not you
Love this loving Spirit too?

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Nothing to Pay.

Nothing to pay! Ah, nothing to pay!
Never a word of excuse to say!
Year after year thou hast filled the score,
Owing thy Lord still more and more.
Hear the voice of Jesus say,
‘Verily thou hast nothing to pay!
Ruined, lost art thou, and yet
I forgave thee all that debt.’

Nothing to pay! the debt is so great;
What will you do with the awful weight?
How shall the way of escape be made?
Nothing to pay! yet it must be paid!
Hear the voice of Jesus say,
‘Verily thou hast nothing to pay!
All has been put to My account,
I have paid the full amount.’

Nothing to pay; yes, nothing to pay!
Jesus has cleared all the debt away;
Blotted it out with His bleeding hand!
Free and forgiven and loved you stand.
Hear the voice of Jesus say,
‘Verily thou hast nothing to pay!
Paid is the debt, and the debtor free!
Now I ask thee, lovest thou Me?’

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Christmas Verses.

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A Merrie Christmas.

‘A merrie Christmas’ to you!
For we serve the Lord with mirth,
And we carol forth glad tidings
Of our holy Saviour's birth.
So we keep the olden greeting
With its meaning deep and true,
And wish ‘a merrie Christmas’
And a happy New Year to you!

Oh, yes! ‘a merrie Christmas,’
With blithest song and smile,
Bright with the thought of Him who dwelt
On earth a little while,
That we might dwell for ever
Where never falls a tear:
So ‘a merrie Christmas’ to you,
And a happy, happy year!

A Happy Christmas.

A happy Christmas to you!
For the Light of Life is born,
And His coming is the sunshine
Of the dark and wintry morn.

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The grandest orient glow must pale,
The loveliest western gleams must fail:
But His great Light,
So full, so bright,
Ariseth for thy heart to-day;
His shadow-conquering beams shall never pass away.

A happy Christmas to you!
For the Prince of Peace is come,
And His reign is full of blessings,
Their very crown and sum.
No earthly calm can ever last,
'Tis but the lull before the blast:
But His great peace
Shall still increase
In mighty, all-rejoicing sway;
His kingdom in thy heart shall never pass away.

Our Saviour Christ was Born.

Our Saviour Christ was born
That we might have the rose without the thorn;
All through His desert life
He felt the thorns of human sin and strife.
His blessed feet were bare
To every hurting brier; He did not spare
One bleeding footstep on the way
He came to trace for us, until the day
The cruel crown was pressed upon the Brow,
That smiles upon us from His glory now.

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And so He won for us
Sweet, thornless, everlasting flowers thus!
He bids our desert way
Rejoice and blossom as the rose to-day.
There is no hidden thorn
In His good gifts of grace; He would adorn
The lives that now are His alone,
With brightness and with beauty all His own.
Then praise the Lord who came on Christmas Day
To give the rose and take the thorns away.

Christmas Gifts.

‘Thou hast received gifts for men.’— Ps. lxviii. 18.

Christmas gifts for thee,
Fair and free!
Precious things from the heavenly store,
Filling thy casket more and more;
Golden love in divinest chain,
That never can be untwined again;
Silvery carols of joy that swell
Sweetest of all in the heart's lone cell;
Pearls of peace that were sought for thee
In the terrible depths of a fiery sea;
Diamond promises sparkling bright,
Flashing in farthest reaching light.

Christmas gifts for thee,
Grand and free!
Christmas gifts from the King of love,
Brought from His royal home above;

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Brought to thee in the far-off land,
Brought to thee by His own dear hand.
Promises held by Christ for thee,
Peace as a river flowing free,
Joy that in His own joy must live,
And love that Infinite Love can give.
Surely thy heart of hearts uplifts
Carols of praise for such Christmas gifts!

Christmas Mottoes.

[Unto you the Child is born]

Unto you the Child is born,
On this blessed Christmas morn.
Unto you, to be your Peace;
Unto you, for He hath found you;
Unto you, with full release
From the weary chains that bound you:
Unto you, that you may rise
Unto Him above the skies.

[The wilderness shall rejoice]

The wilderness shall rejoice,
And the wintry waste shall sing,
At the wakening herald voice
Of the coming of the King.
So the sparkling Christmas snow
Is dearer than summer light;
For He whom we love came down below
In the hush of a Christmas night.

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May thy Christmas morning break
Holy and bright and calm;
And may all thy life for His dear sake
Be a joyful Christmas psalm.

[Is it a wintry night?]

Is it a wintry night?
Watch! for the heavenly light
Shineth, O mourner, around and above!
Tidings of joy to thee
Float on the minstrelsy!
Rise up and welcome the Son of His love.

[Cometh in lowliness]

‘Behold, thy King cometh unto thee.’— Zech. ix. 9.

Cometh in lowliness,
Cometh in righteousness,
Cometh in mercy all royal and free!
Cometh with grace and might,
Cometh with love and light;
Cometh, belovèd! He cometh to thee!

[Bright be thy Christmas tide!]

Bright be thy Christmas tide!
Carol it far and wide,
Jesus, the King and the Saviour, is come!
Jesus thy guest will be;
O let Him dwell with thee!
Open thy heart for His palace and home.

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[What do the angels sing?]

What do the angels sing?
What is the word they bring?
What is the music of Christmas again?
Glad tidings still to thee,
Peace and good-will to thee,
Glory to God in the highest! Amen.

[Oh, Christmas blessings cannot cease]

Oh, Christmas blessings cannot cease,
Christmas joy is deep and strong!
For Christ is come to be our Peace,
Our Salvation and our Song.

Christmas Gifts.

[The wondrous love and light]

The wondrous love and light,
The fulness and the glory,
The meaning and the might
Of all the Christmas story,
May Christ Himself unfold to you to-day,
And bid you go rejoicing on your way.

[A happy, happy Christmas]

A happy, happy Christmas
Be yours to-day!
Oh, not the failing measure
Of fleeting earthly pleasure,
But Christmas joy abiding,
While years are swiftly gliding,
Be yours, I pray,
Through Him who gave us Christmas Day!

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A bright and blessed Christmas Day,
With echoes of the angels' song,
And peace that cannot pass away,
And holy gladness, calm and strong,
And sweet heart carols, flowing free!
This is my Christmas wish to thee!

[Down the ages hoary]

Down the ages hoary
Peals the song of glory,
Peace, and God's good-will!
Other echoes die away,
But the song of Christmas Day
Echoes from the Judean hill,
Ever clearer, louder still.
Oh, may its holy, heavenly chime
Make all thy life a Christmas time!

Christmas Sunshine.

[Do the angels know the blessed day]

Do the angels know the blessed day,
And strike their harps anew?
Then may the echo of their lay
Float sweetly down to you,
And fill your soul with Christmas song
That your heart shall echo your whole life long.

[Jesus came!—and came for me!]

Jesus came!—and came for me!
Simple words! and yet expressing
Depths of holy mystery,
Depths of wondrous love and blessing.

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Holy Spirit, make me see
All His coming means for me;
Take the things of Christ, I pray,
Show them to my heart to-day.

[Oh, let thy heart make melody]

Oh, let thy heart make melody,
And thankful songs uplift,
For Christ Himself is come to be
Thy glorious Christmas gift.

[A happy, happy Christmas]

A happy, happy Christmas,
And a happy, happy year!
Oh, we have not deserved it,
And yet we need not fear.
For Jesus has deserved it,
And so, for Jesus' sake,
This cup of joy and blessing
With grateful hand we take.

[There is silence high in the midnight sky]

There is silence high in the midnight sky,
And only the sufferers watch the night;
But long ago there was song and glow,
And a message of joy from the Prince of Light,
And the Christmas song of the messenger-throng
The echoes of life shall for ever prolong.

[Great is the mystery]

Great is the mystery
Of wondrous grace,
God manifest we see
In Jesu's face.

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O deepest mystery
Of Love Divine,
God manifest for me,
And Jesus mine!

[What was the first angelic word]

What was the first angelic word
That the startled shepherds heard?—
‘Fear not!’ Beloved, it comes to you
As a Christmas message most sweet and true,
As true for you as it was for them
In the lonely fields of Bethlehem;
And as sweet to-day as it was that night,
When the glory dazzled their mortal sight.

[Christ is come to be my Friend]

Christ is come to be my Friend,
Leading, loving to the end;
Christ is come to be my King,
Ordering, ruling everything.
Christ is come! Enough for me,
Lonely though the pathway be.

[Give me a song, O Lord]

Give me a song, O Lord,
That I may sing to Thee,
In true and sweet accord
With angel minstrelsy.
Oh, tune my heart that it may bring
A Christmas anthem to my King.

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[Swell the notes of the Christmas Song!]

Swell the notes of the Christmas Song!
Sound it forth through the earth abroad!
Glory to God!
Blessing and honour, thanks and laud!
Take the joy of the Christmas Song!
Are not the tidings good and true?
Peace to you,
And God's good-will that is ever new!

[Christ is come to be thy light]

Christ is come to be thy light,
Shining through the darkest night;
He will make thy pilgrim way
Shine unto the perfect day.
Take the message! let it be
Full of Christmas joy to thee!

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TITLES OF CHRIST.

Wonderful.

‘For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon His shoulder: and His Name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.’— Isa. ix. 6.

Wonderful! Wonderful!
Ring out the Name, O Christmas chimes!
Wonderful! Wonderful!
Echo the word to farthest climes!
May the splendour of this great Name
Shine and glow with a mighty flame,
Filling thy life with its glorious rays,
Filling thy spirit with Christmas praise.

Counsellor.

Mist and cloud and darkness
Veil the wintry hour,
But the sun dispels them
With his rising power.

Mist and cloud and darkness
Often dim thy day,
But a Christmas glory
Shines upon thy way.

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May the Lord of Christmas,
Counsellor and Friend,
Light thy desert pathway
Even to the end.

The Everlasting Father.

O Name of gentlest grace,
O Name of strength and might,
Meeting the heart-need of our orphaned race
With tenderest delight!
Our Everlasting Father! This is He
Who came in deep humility
A little child to be!

The Mighty God.

The Christmas bells proclaim
His glorious name,
‘The Mighty God!’
God manifest indeed,

And yet the Woman's Seed,
To whom we sing
All glory, praise, and laud!
Divinest Lord and King.

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The Prince of Peace.

O Name of beauty and of calm!
O Name of rest and balm,
Of exquisite delight,
And yet of sovereignty and might!
Let it make music in thy heart to-day,
And bid thee go rejoicing on thy way;
For Jesus is thy Peace, thy Prince of Peace,
Whose reign within thy heart shall evermore increase.

Man of Rest.

‘Behold, a son shall be born to thee, who shall be a man of rest.’ —1 Chron. xxii. 9.

Hall, Christmas morn!
For unto us the Son is born,
The Man of Rest!
The weary quest
Is over now, for He who cometh, calleth,
‘Come unto Me, and I will give you rest!’
The still voice falleth
On hearts that, listening, are blessed.
And daily shall the blessing flow,
And daily shall the gladness grow,
For we which have believed do enter into rest.

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New Year Verses.

385

A Happy New Year to You.

New mercies, new blessings, new light on thy way;
New courage, new hope, and new strength for each day;
New notes of thanksgiving, new chords of delight,
New praise in the morning, new songs in the night;
New wine in thy chalice, new altars to raise;
New fruits for thy Master, new garments of praise;
New gifts from His treasures, new smiles from His face;
New streams from the fountain of infinite grace;
New stars for thy crown, and new tokens of love;
New gleams of the glory that waits thee above;
New light of His countenance full and unpriced;—
All this be the joy of thy new life in Christ!

Another Year.

Another year is dawning!
Dear Master, let it be,
In working or in waiting,
Another year with Thee.

Another year of leaning
Upon Thy loving breast,
Of ever-deepening trustfulness,
Of quiet, happy rest.

Another year of mercies,
Of faithfulness and grace;

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Another year of gladness
In the shining of Thy face.

Another year of progress,
Another year of praise;
Another year of proving
Thy presence ‘all the days.’

Another year of service,
Of witness for Thy love;
Another year of training
For holier work above.

Another year is dawning,
Dear Master, let it be,
On earth, or else in heaven,
Another year for Thee!

Faithful Promises.

NEW YEAR'S HYMN.

[_]

Isa. xli. 10.

Standing at the portal
Of the opening year,
Words of comfort meet us,
Hushing every fear;
Spoken through the silence
By our Father's voice,
Tender, strong, and faithful,
Making us rejoice.
Onward then, and fear not,
Children of the day!
For His word shall never,
Never pass away!

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I, the Lord, am with thee,
Be thou not afraid!
I will help and strengthen,
Be thou not dismayed!
Yea, I will uphold thee
With my own right hand;
Thou art called and chosen
In my sight to stand.
Onward then, and fear not,
Children of the day!
For His word shall never,
Never pass away!

For the year before us,
Oh, what rich supplies!
For the poor and needy
Living streams shall rise;
For the sad and sinful
Shall His grace abound;
For the faint and feeble
Perfect strength be found.
Onward then, and fear not,
Children of the day!
For His word shall never,
Never pass away!

He will never fail us,
He will not forsake;
His eternal covenant
He will never break!
Resting on His promise,
What have we to fear?

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God is all-sufficient
For the coming year.
Onward then, and fear not,
Children of the day!
For His word shall never,
Never pass away!

New Year's Wishes.

What shall I wish thee?
Treasures of earth?
Songs in the spring-time,
Pleasure and mirth?
Flowers on thy pathway,
Skies ever clear?
Would this ensure thee
A Happy New Year?

What shall I wish thee?
What can be found
Bringing thee sunshine
All the year round?
Where is the treasure,
Lasting and dear,
That shall ensure thee
A Happy New Year?

Faith that increaseth,
Walking in light;
Hope that aboundeth,
Happy and bright;

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Love that is perfect,
Casting out fear;—
These shall ensure thee
A Happy New Year.

Peace in the Saviour,
Rest at His feet,
Smile of His countenance
Radiant and sweet,
Joy in His presence,
Christ ever near!—
This will ensure thee
A Happy New Year!

A Happy New Year.

A happy New Year! Oh such may it be!
Joyously, surely, and fully for thee!
Fear not and faint not, but be of good cheer,
And trustfully enter thy happy New Year!

Happy, so happy! Thy Father shall guide,
Protect thee, preserve thee, and always provide!
Onward and upward along the right way
Lovingly leading thee day by day.

Happy, so happy! Thy Saviour shall be
Ever more precious and present with thee!
Happy, so happy! His Spirit thy Guest,
Filling with glory the place of His rest.

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Happy, so happy! Though shadows around
May gather and darken, they flee at the sound
Of the glorious Voice that saith, ‘Be of good cheer!’
Then joyously enter thy happy New Year!

New Year Mottoes.

[‘From this day’]

‘From this day will I bless you.’— Hag. ii. 19.

‘From this day’
He shall bless thee!
What shall then distress thee?
‘From this day’
He will never leave thee;
What shall grieve thee?
Christ, thy mighty Friend,
Loveth to the end
‘From this day!’

[The Lord hath done great things for thee!]

‘Be glad and rejoice, for the Lord will do great things.’— Joel ii. 21.

The Lord hath done great things for thee!
All through the fleeted days
Jehovah hath dealt wondrously;
Lift up thy heart and praise!
For greater things thine eyes shall see,
Child of His loving choice!
The Lord will do great things for thee;
Fear not, be glad, rejoice!

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Wondrously
The Lord hath dealt with thee!
Wondrous mercy all the way,
Wondrous patience every day,
Wondrous pardon, wondrous feeling,
Wondrous help and wondrous leading
Through the bygone year.

Wondrously
The Lord shall deal with thee!
Wondrous tenderness and grace,
Wondrous shining of His face,
Wondrous faithfulness and power,
Wondrous love, shall twine each bower
Through the coming year!

[Crown the year with Thy goodness, Lord!]

Crown the year with Thy goodness, Lord!
And make every hour a gem
In the living diadem,
That sparkles to Thy praise.

Crown the year with Thy grace, O Lord!
Be Thy fresh anointings shed
On Thy waiting servant's head,
Who treads Thy royal ways.

Crown the year with Thy glory, Lord!
Let the brightness and the glow
Of its heavenly overflow
Crown Thy beloved's days!

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[Strong and loving is thy Friend!]

Strong and loving is thy Friend!
Trust Him for the untried year!
He shall lead thee to the end,
Ever gracious, ever near.
As the everlasting hills
Thou shalt find His faithfulness;
As the crystal mountain-rills.

[Toward the rising of the sun]

‘And on the east side toward the rising of the sun shall they of the standard of the camp of Judah pitch throughout their armies: and Nahshon the son of Amminadab shall be captain of the children of Judah.’— Num. ii. 3.

Toward the rising of the sun
Now thy standard raise!
Let thy New Year's halt be one
In the Camp of Praise.
Then the wilderness shall be
Fruitful, fair, and glad for thee.

[Another year of patient toil]

Another year of patient toil,
A few sheaves won from rocky soil,
May seem not much to thee;
But all thy work is with the Lord,
And thine exceeding great reward
Thy God Himself shall be.

[Praising together for all the way]

Praising together for all the way,
Now let us welcome our New Year's Day,
Rejoicing together in faith and love,
Hoping together for rest above.

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[Eternity with Jesus]

Eternity with Jesus
Is long enough for rest;
Thank God that we are spared to work
For Him whom we love best!

[The threefold blessing Israel heard]

‘The Lord bless thee, and keep thee: The Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’— Num. vi. 24-26.

The threefold blessing Israel heard
Three thousand years ago,
God grant it may on thee to-day
In power and fulness flow;
That Light and Peace in grand increase
All through the year may glow.

[Lord Jesus, keep our dear one]

Lord Jesus, keep our dear one
All through the year;
By day and night Thy presence bright
Be ever near;
And Thy sweet word be always heard
To guide and cheer.

[One year less]

‘I will sing of mercy and judgment.’— Ps. ci. 1.

One year less
Of wisely-ordered loss,
Of sorrow and of weariness,
Conflict and cross.

394

One year more
Of mercies ever new,
Of love in never-failing store,
Faithful and true.

[The Lord thy God!]

‘He it is that doth go before thee; He will be with thee, He will not fail thee.’— Deut. xxxi. 8.

The Lord thy God!
He it is that goes before thee,
His the banner waving o'er thee,
Bright and broad!
When the fiercest foes assail thee,
He it is that will not fail thee,
The Lord thy God!

[The future! who may lift the veil]

‘The righteous, and the wise, and their works, are in the hand of God.’ —Eccles, ix. 1.

The future! who may lift the veil
And read its yet unwritten tale?
But sorrow and joy alike we leave
In the Hand that doeth all things well,
And calmly from that Hand receive
All that each coming year may tell.
We would not ask of life or death,
It shall be as the Master saith.

[Now Thy loving Spirit]

Now Thy loving Spirit
On our lives outpour;
Make us know Thee better,
Make us love Thee more.

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Take us now, we pray Thee,
Make us all Thine own;
Keep us Thine for ever,
Keep us Thine alone!

[‘Not as the world giveth]

‘Not as the world giveth
Give I to you!’
Saith the Redeemer,
Faithful and True.
May He enrich thee,
This New Year's Day,
With gifts from His treasure
That pass not away.

[This New Year Thou givest me]

This New Year Thou givest me,
Lord, I consecrate to Thee,
With all its nights and days:
Fill my hand with service blest,
Fill my heart with holy rest,
And fill my life with praise.

[A bright New Year, and a sunny track]

A bright New Year, and a sunny track
Along an upward way,
And a song of praise on looking back,
When the year has passed away,
And golden sheaves nor small nor few!
This is my New Year's wish for you!

[Another year for Jesus!]

Another year for Jesus!
How can I wish for you
A greater joy or blessing,
O fellow-worker true?

396

[Is the work difficult?]

Is the work difficult?
Jesus directs thee.
Is the path dangerous?
Jesus protects thee.
Fear not, and falter not,—
Let the word cheer thee!—
All through the coming year
He will be with thee!

[Happy, because He loves thee!]

Happy, because He loves thee!
Happy, because He lives!
Bright with that deepest gladness
Which only Jesus gives.
Happy, because He guides thee,
Because He cares for thee;
Happy, ever so happy,
Thus may thy New Year be!

[For the weariest day]

For the weariest day
May Christ be thy stay!
For the darkest night
May Christ be thy light!
For the weakest hour
May Christ be thy power!
For each moment's fall
May Christ be thy All!

397

Easter Echoes.

399

[Arise, for He is risen to-day]

Arise, for He is risen to-day,
And shine, for He is glorified;
Put on thy beautiful array,
And keep perpetual Easter-tide.

[The white flowers, freed]

The white flowers, freed
From snowy sepulchres, may speak
In angel-tone to thee,—
‘Oh, fear not ye!
The Saviour whom ye seek
Is risen indeed!’

[In the likeness of His death]

In the likeness of His death
We were planted,
Therefore, by His Spirit's breath
Resurrection-life is granted;—
Resurrection beauty glowing,
Resurrection power outflowing,
Resurrection gladness cheering,
Resurrection glory nearing.

400

[‘Shall rise again!’]

‘Shall rise again!’
His word shall be
Enough for thee,
O mourning heart, so full of pain!
Yet see
The promise sealed.
By loveliest miracles. Each wakening flower
Of fell or field,
Is fair new proof of resurrection power.

[Far on the mountain height]

Far on the mountain height
They grew;
Each vivid tint
A new
And fair imprint
Of the once piercèd Feet,
A token sweet
(Sent very tenderly),
That Jesus lives and loves and cares for me.

[Oh, let me know]

Oh, let me know
The power of Thy resurrection!
Oh, let me show
Thy risen life in clear reflection!
Oh, let me soar
Where Thou, my Saviour Christ, art gone before!
In mind and heart
Let me dwell always, only, where Thou art.

401

Birthday Poems.

403

ACROSTICS.

Cecilia Havergal.

Christ hath called thee, Christ hath blest,
Everlasting life is thine;
Closely cleaving, thou shalt rest
In His glorious love divine.
Let Him teach thee what He will,
In thee day by day fulfil
All His sweet and blessed will.

He is come to claim His throne,
And thy life is all His own;
Voices of this passing earth,
Echoes of its praise or mirth,
Reach not, when the heart hath heard
Golden music of His word.
‘All for Jesus’ henceforth be!
Live for Him who died for thee.

404

Edith Havergal.

Early chastening, early blessing!
Darkest cloud hath brightest bow!
In the night of pain distressing,
Thine hath been the joy to show
How God is a Sun and Shield.

Heir thou art by His good pleasure,
All thy title Spirit-sealed!
View thy grand and royal treasure—
Every gift in Love's full measure,
Riches of His grace, so great,
Glory's far exceeding weight,—
All in Christ for ever thine!
Light and Life and Love Divine!

For E. P. S.

Francie, may thy childhood be
As a blossom-laden tree,
Showing promise full and free.

Willie, be thy life a song,
Holy, happy, sweet, and long,
Swelling through a world of wrong.

Alfred, be a fragrant flower,
Hailing either sun or shower,
Sweetest in its fading hour.

Alice, in thy baby measure,
Ever be thy parents' treasure,
Showering golden love and pleasure.

405

Mizpah.

MESSAGES FOR ABSENT FRIENDS.

[Only a leaf, yet it shall bear]

Only a leaf, yet it shall bear
A wealth of love, of mintage true!
Only a simple earnest prayer,
That silently goes up for you;
Yet you and I may never know
What blessings from that prayer may flow.

[‘Grace, mercy, peace.’]

‘Grace, mercy, peace.’
Triple blossom, rainbow-hued,
Fresh and fragrant, heaven-bedewed,
Brightening desert solitude,
Springing from the Love Divine,
Love that ever shall entwine
With our own, with yours and mine.

[Upon the same bright morning star]

Upon the same bright morning star
Our gaze may meet, though severed far:
The Star of Bethlehem to-day
Shines brightly on our wintry way;
And, gazing on its radiance clear,
Our hearts may meet, and we are near!

[As the sounding shell conveys]

As the sounding shell conveys
The murmur of the sea,

406

So let this tiny token raise
Some memory of me;
For loving thought of prayer and praise
Fail not to rise for thee.

[Though the circling flight of time may find us]

Though the circling flight of time may find us
Far apart, or severed more and more,
Yet the farewell always lies behind us,
And the welcome always lies before.
Meanwhile God is leading, surely, slowly,
Through the shadows with a hand of love,
To the house where, 'mid the myriads holy,
Only welcomes wait us both above.

Birthday Mottoes.

[May the tale the years are telling]

May the tale the years are telling,
Always be
Like an angel-anthem swelling
Through thy spirit's quiet dwelling,
Till the glory all-excelling
Dawn for thee!

[Many a happy year be thine]

Many a happy year be thine,
If our Father will!
He has traced the fair design,
He will fill it, line by line,
Working patiently, until
Thy completed life shall shine,
Glorious in the life divine.

407

[Many and happy thy birthdays be!]

Many and happy thy birthdays be!
In the light of heaven arrayed;
With the rainbow arching every cloud
When the pathway lies in shade;
And full and far may the blessing flow,
That thy future life is made.

[Love would strew upon thy way]

Love would strew upon thy way
Fairest, freshest flowers to-day;
Love would daily, hourly shed
Brightest sunbeams on thy head.
So she prays: that heavenly grace
Be thy flower-awakening dew,
And the brightness of His face
Gild thy life with sunshine true.

[‘Upward, still upward’ thy pathway be]

‘Upward, still upward’ thy pathway be,
Into the sunshine grand and free;
Leaving the mists and clouds below,
Gaining the pure and stainless snow.
Upward, still upward! Thy faithful Guide
Always close at His pilgrim's side,
Leading thee on from height to height,
Nearer and nearer the stars of light.

[Birthday blessings, fullest, sweetest]

Birthday blessings, fullest, sweetest,
Fall on thee to-day!
Earthly pleasure, fairest, fleetest,
Will not, cannot stay;

408

But the true and heavenly treasure
Cannot pass away:
May its richest, grandest measure
Gild thy natal day!

[The Love of God the Father]

The Love of God the Father,
The Grace of God the Son,
The joy of God the Holy Ghost,—
A blessing three in one,
Be yours aboundingly, I pray,
For this and every coming day!

[Leaning, resting, trusting, loving]

Leaning, resting, trusting, loving,
Enter thy new year!
For the Lord who lives to love thee
Will be always near,
Shielding, guiding, caring, blessing!—
What hast thou to fear?

[We pray Thee for our dear one!]

We pray Thee for our dear one!
May a sunny birthday prove
The portal of long happy years,
All radiant with Thy love.
And we praise Thee for our dear one!
For all the mercies past,
And for all the blessing that shall flow
While life itself shall last.

409

[A holy, happy birthday]

A holy, happy birthday
And a happy, happy year!
Ah, we have not deserved it,
And yet we need not fear.
For Jesus has deserved it!
And so, for Jesus' sake,
This cup of joy and blessing
With grateful heart we take.

[I have no birthday gifts to bring]

I have no birthday gifts to bring,
But I will crave a Royal dower,
The sevenfold largesse of the King.

His Peace be thine, His Love unknown;
His own deep Joy, His Strength and Power,
His Grace abounding, be thine own!

His Rest be thine, sweet rest to-day,
Rest while the swift years pass away,
And then His Glory thine for aye!

To M. V. G. H.

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

The blessing of the trusting one,
Who knows her faithful Friend;
The blessing of the waiting one,
Who trusts Him to the end;
The blessing of the watching one,
Whose eyes are on the Lord;

410

The blessing of the chastened one,
That marvellous reward!—
These sweetest birthday blessings be
Abundantly bestowed on thee!

Blessing and blest
May thy new year be,
Brightest and best
Of the years to thee,
Awaiting the rest
Of eternity!

M. L. C.'s Birthday Crown.

Only just a line to say,
Miriam, on this summer day,
What my spirit's love would breathe,
While thy birthday crown I wreathe.

Crown! How many a mingled thought
By that little word is brought!
Yet may each enlinkèd be
In a birthday wish for thee.

One who wears a crown should reign
Sovereign over some domain;
Held by thee, love's fairy sway
Still may every heart obey.

First we think of royal gems,
Coronets and diadems;
'Twere an idle wish, I ween,
Be thou happy as a Queen!

411

To another crown we turn,
While our loving hearts would burn,
Worn by Him who on the tree,
Miriam, hath died for thee.

By that thorn-enwoven crown,
By the life for thee laid down,
May thy every fleeting year
Bring thee to His love more near!

Then the crown of golden light,
Worn by those who walk in white,
May that be thy blest reward
In the presence of thy Lord!

To John Henry C--- on his Third Birthday.

Blessings on thee, darling boy,
Peace and love and gentle joy!
May the coronal they twine
Through the dream of life be thine!

Little hast thou known of life,
Of its sorrow, of its strife,
Thine not yet dark Future's blast,
Thine not yet a shadowy Past.

While we reck of coming years,
Strangely mingling hopes and fears,

412

What are sober thoughts to thee,
In the tide of birthday glee!

Thou art beautiful and bright,
Daily wakening new delight,
Would that we the prize could hold,
Always keep thee three years old!

No, not always; thou may'st be
Something brighter yet to see,
Noble-hearted, lofty-souled,
When more years have o'er thee rolled.

Love is watching round thee now,
Tracing sunbeams on thy brow;
Never be her mission done
To thy father's only son!

Yet a higher, deeper love
Watcheth o'er thee from above
Then thy fount of motive be
Love to Him who loveth thee.

Darling, may thy years below
Like a strain of music flow,
Ever sweeter, purer, higher,
Till it swell the angel choir.

Be thy life a star of light,
Glistening through earth's stormy night,
Shining then with glorious ray
Through the One Eternal Day!

413

For Elizabeth Clay's Birthday.

‘My presence shall go with thee,
And I will give thee rest!’
A promise sweetly tender,
Soothing the anxious breast.

He knows the lonely spirit,
And all its hidden woe;
He knows the weary yearnings
No earthly friend can know.

His presence shall go with thee,
And His upholding hand
Thy orphaned footsteps guiding
All through the stranger's land.

Encompassed by that Presence
Thou wilt not be alone,
And thou may'st safely rest thee
'Neath the shadow of His throne.

When spring-time's emerald glory
Bids hill and valley smile,
And thou once more regainest
The white cliffs of our isle,

Shall I not hear thee whisper,
In accents calmly blest—
‘His presence hath been with me,
And He hath given me rest’?

414

‘Coming of Age.’

[_]

(J. H. S.)

What do we seek for him to-day, who, through such golden gates
Of mirth and gladness, enters now where life before him waits?
'Mid light and flowers the feast is spread, and young and old rejoice,
And motto texts speak out for all, with earnest, loving voice.

The threefold blessing Israel heard three thousand years ago,
Oh! grant it may on him to-day in power and fulness flow;
For, faithful and unchangeable, each word of God is sure,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away, His promises endure.

The Angel of the Covenant, redeeming from all ill
Both son and father, bless the lad, and every prayer fulfil;
Nor only bless, but make him, too, a blessing, Lord, from Thee:
With length of days, oh, satisfy; let him Thy glory see.

Through all the journey of his life, Thy presence with him go;
Rest in Thee here, and with Thee there, do Thou, O Lord, bestow.

415

Oh, keep him faithful unto death, then grant to him, we pray,
The crown of glory and of life, that fadeth not away.

So shall the father's soul be glad for him he holds so dear,
A son whose heart is truly wise in God's most holy fear;
And hallowed be our festal joy with gratitude and praise;
Forget not all His benefits, whose kindness crowns our days.

Then glory in the highest be to Him, our Strength and Song;
May every heart uplift its part, in blessings deep and long.
Through Him who died that we might live, our thanks to God ascend,
The King of kings, and Lord of lords, our Saviour and our Friend.

To the Rev. C. B. Snepp.

I have no hymn, my brother,
Upon your desk to lay,
No song of holy gladness
To bring to you to-day;

To ‘Songs of Grace and Glory’
No verses sweet and new!
I write not for ten thousand,
I only write for you.

For oh, my heart is singing
A song of quiet praise

416

To Him who has preserved you,
Upholding all your ways.

To Him who knows our sorrows,
Who knew the orphan's heart,
And sent a friend to cheer it,
And act a brother's part.

So I come before my Father,
My hands in faith uplift,
To fill your cup with gladness
And every perfect gift.

And may His loving-kindness
Crown all with grace for grace,
Till in the coming glory
You stand before His face!

And see with light from heaven,
Clear-shining on thy ways,
Each pilgrimage petition
Transmuted into praise.

Saturday Night.

TO THE SAME.

Lord, refresh Thy weary servant,
Send him sweet and quiet rest;
Thou hast made him oft a blessing,
Let him now be doubly blest.

417

Let him feel Thy holy presence
Richly dwelling in his soul,
Every care and every burden
Bid him on Jehovah roll.

Lord, as he for Thee hath spoken,
Now to him, oh do Thou speak!
With Thy still small voice of comfort
Crown the mercies of the week.

May He wake with strength renewed,
Yet again to work for Thee;
Full of Sabbath joy and blessing
Let his spirit always be!

419

Sonnets.

421

A Waking Thought.

Then Time will seem as but a pebble cast
Into the ocean of Eternity,
Breaking for one short moment that pure light,
Which dwells upon its calm expanse of joy,
As into shiv'ring radiance, and shade-like circles.
Soon melting back into primeval brightness,
(Like that which was, when all created essence
Took but the forms of blended light and music,
In glory of an infinite variety),
Through the translucent crystal of that sea,
It swiftly sinks to rest, within the depths
Of that great heart, like an aye-glistening
And treasured memory of things gone by,
Bearing, deep graven on its pale, clear front,
One word—Redemption!

Life Mosaic.

Master, to do great work for Thee, my hand
Is far too weak! Thou givest what may suit—
Some little chips to cut with care minute,
Or tint, or grave, or polish. Others stand

422

Before their quarried marble fair and grand,
And make a life work of the great design
Which Thou hast traced; or, many-skilled, combine
To build vast temples, gloriously planned.
Yet take the tiny stones which I have wrought,
Just one by one, as they were given by Thee,
Not knowing what came next in Thy wise thought.
Set each stone by Thy master-hand of grace,
Form the mosaic as Thou wilt for me,
And in Thy temple-pavement give it place.

To Helga.

Come down, and show the dwellers far below
What God is painting on each mountain place!
Show His fair colours, and His perfect grace,
Dowering each blossom born of sun and snow:
His tints, not thine! Thou art God's copyist,
O gifted Helga! His thy golden height,
Thy purple depth, thy rosy sunset light,
Thy blue snow-shadows, and thy weird white mist.
Reveal His works to many a distant land!
Paint for His praise, oh paint for love of Him!
He is thy Master, let Him hold thy hand,
So thy pure heart no cloud of self shall dim.
At His dear feet lay down thy laurel-store,
Which crimson proof of thy redemption bore.

423

Memorial Names.

The High Priest stands before the Mercy Seat,
And on his breast bright mingling jewel-flames
Reflect Shechinah light; twelve patriarch names
Flash where the emerald and sapphire meet
Sardius and diamond. With softer beam,
From mystic onyx on his shoulders placed,
Deep graven, never altered or erased,
The same great names, in birthday order, gleam.
May each name written here be thus engraved,
Set in the place of power, the place of love,
And borne in sweet memorial above,
By Him who loved and chose, redeemed and saved.
Be each dear name, the greatest and the least,
Always upon the heart of our High Priest.

Our Red-Letter Days.

My Alpine staff recalls each shining height,
Each pass of grandeur with rejoicing gained,
Carved with a lengthening record, self-explained,
Of mountain-memories sublime and bright.
No valley-life but hath some mountain days,
Bright summits in the retrospective view,
And toil-won passes to glad prospects new,
Fair sunlit memories of joy and praise.
Grave on thy heart each past ‘red-letter day!’
Forget not all the sunshine of the way

424

By which the Lord hath led thee: answered prayers
And joys unasked; strange blessings, lifted cares,
Grand promise-echoes! Thus thy life shall be
One record of His love and faithfulness to thee.

Luke ix. 13.

The Lord commanded, ‘Give ye them to eat,’—
Five loaves and two small fishes all their store
For hungering crowds. He knew they had no more,
And He had called them to that wild retreat.
They gave it as He gave them, piece by piece,
Where on the green grass grouped the great and small
Till all were filled. So not theirs at all
But His, the glory of that grand increase.
Master, I have not strength to serve Thee much,
The ‘half-day's work’ is all that I can do,
But let Thy mighty, multiplying touch
Even to me the miracle renew.
Let five words feed five thousand, and Thy power
Expand to life-results one feeble hour.

425

In Memoriam.

427

My Mother's Request.

(SUNDAY MORNING, 8 O'CLOCK.)

The Sabbath morn dawns o'er the mountain brow,
And lights the earth with glory soft and mild:
Oh, think'st thou, dearest mother, even now
Of me, thy youngest and most wayward child?

For this, my mother, is the sacred hour
When thou didst bid me ever think of thee:
Oh, surely nothing earthly could have power
To break the spell which hallows it to me.

Thy loving look, thy feeble voice, I seem,
Though years have passed, to see and hear again;
Not as the shadowy fancies of a dream,
But as distinct, as vivid now as then.

‘When in my Saviour's glorious home I dwell,
Forget not this my last request to thee:
When soundeth forth the early Sabbath bell,
Where'er thou art, my Fanny, think of me!’

Oh, why was this thy dying wish—thy last?
Thou would'st not think that I should e'er forget
My mother's love, that passing years might cast
A cloudy veil, where that bright star did set;

428

Thou could'st not wish to wake the grief anew
Which Time's dark poppies might have lulled awhile;
'T was not that tear-drops might again bedew
My cheek for aye, and chase again each smile.

Oh no! were death an endless, joyless sleep,
Thou hadst not bid me on thy memory dwell;
This hour for thee thou hadst not bid me keep,
To grieve thy child, thou lovedst her too well.

But well thou knew'st I could not think of thee
Without remembering Him with whom thou art,
To whom thou oft didst pray so fervently
That I might give my wandering, wilful heart.

I must remember too the joyful faith
Which filled thy soul e'en in thy dying hour,
And led thee calmly through the vale of death;
There I must ever see its wondrous power.

I could not but fulfil thy last desire,
The last sweet echo of thy loving voice,
Calling my mind each Sabbath morning higher,
Where thou in endless Sabbath dost rejoice.

So if my heart should tempt me to forget
To watch and pray, and Jesu's love to seek,
This quiet hour might break for me the net,
And free my feet afresh each opening week.

Oft when I wavered, slipped, and nearly fell,
Yet stunned and giddy heeded not my fate,
The fatal charm was broken by that bell,
Thy memory oped my eyes ere yet too late.

429

And oft when sad and hopeless seemed my way,
Its sweet sound told me of the victory
Which thy bright faith hath gained, and then a ray
Of hope hath whispered, ‘Such may be for thee.’

Oh, 'twas a mother's love which did devise
This gentle way of helping her child's soul;
Not on earth only, but from yon bright skies
To aid her steps towards the heavenly goal.

Oh, Thou who dwellest with Thy ransomed, where
The one long Sabbath ne'er may darkly close,
By Thy rich mercy grant this earliest prayer,
Which oft for me from her dear lips arose.

Bring me, oh, bring me to Thy house of light,
That there with my loved mother I may dwell,
And e'er rejoicing in Thy presence bright,
May praise Thy love, who doest all things well.

May Dirge.

I welcome not thy coming now,
For sorrow darkeneth my brow,
And but for glad hearts wakest thou,
Fair May.

When, years ago, thou dawnedst bright,
With thy first hours blest my sight
The fairest child that e'er saw light
Of May.

430

She grew a gladder, blither thing
Than butterfly on purple wing,
Or happy birds which sweetly sing
In May.

'Twas she who brought my sunniest hours,
For she was lovelier than the flowers
Which bloom amid thy emerald bowers,
Bright May.

How oft, when grief had touched my heart,
She chased it with her fairy art;
Thy charms to her thou didst impart,
Glad May.

But oh! there is a treacherous smile,
Which Spring assumeth to beguile,
And many rue thy sunny wile,
False May.

A flush in her loved cheek arose,
More rich than ruby tint that glows
In western cloud when evenings close
In May.

Her dark eye brightly, strangely gleamed,
More beautiful than e'er she seemed;
Oh, who of evil nigh had dreamed
That May?

But when the snowdrop came again,
I saw that tenderest care was vain;
My Ella passed from all her pain
In May.

431

That precious life no skill could save;
I laid her in a quiet grave,
Where now the snowy blossoms wave
Of May.

Once more they shed their sweet perfume,
As incense o'er my darling's tomb,
Though soon departs their fragile bloom
With May.

Thou hast my child! Thy sparkling dew
Is glittering on her grave anew;
Soon thou wilt deck her father's too,
O May!

I cannot live without her here,
For earth is desolate and drear,
E'en when thy morning shineth clear,
Blithe May.

To cheer me thou canst weave no spell,
Deep sadness in my heart doth dwell,
And I must bid my last farewell
To May.

Speed, speed thy slow return, for when
Once more thou comest, then, oh then,
I shall be with my child again,
Sweet May!

432

To F. M. G. on her Brother's Death.

Stay not the current of thy tears, for they
Must flow, and 'tis a sad relief to weep
For one who, having brightened long the way,
Now lies in death's long sleep.

A brother's love! I know it is a treasure
Which may by nothing earthly be replaced;
I know that this filled up the bounteous measure
Of joy which thou didst taste.

I know that sadness fills thy youthful heart
E'en to o'erflowing; and it well may seem
That nought to thee remaineth but the smart;
Of happiness no gleam.

And Jesus knows it. Oh, He did not call
Thy brother from his loving sister's side
Without remembering thee, thy sorrows all;
He knows the heart He tried.

But He would have thee turn thy weeping eye
To gaze on Him, who suffered all for thee,
That the effulgence every tear may dry
Which beams from Calvary.

All earthly love is as a thread of gold,
Most fair, but what the touch of death may sever:
But His a cable sure, of strength untold:
Oh! His love lasteth ever.

433

And this sweet love He would on thee bestow,
The fulness of His grace to thee make known,
A glimpse of heaven grant thee here below,
And thou shouldst be His own.

Thou wilt not sigh, if this one Pearl thou gain,
O'er earthly treasures, costly though they be.
Short is the night of weeping and of pain;
Endless the joy for thee!

Thy brother striketh now his harp of gold,
And singeth joyously his first ‘new song;’
The echo of his melody hath rolled
The aisles of heaven along.

He weareth raiment white, which angel hands
From the full vestry of the Lamb have brought;
With palm and crown, before His throne he stands
Who him by blood hath bought.

Gladness unspeakable his soul doth fill,
He hath forgotten pain, and grief, and sorrow;
Eternal bliss hath dawned on him, he will
See no woe-bringing morrow.

He might have passed through many a weary year
Of sickness, trouble, or perplexity,
And as an autumn leaf, all brown and sere,
Been shaken from the tree;

He might have forfeited the heavenly prize,
Had he lived longer on the Tempter's ground:
Then gaze no longer where his body lies
Beneath the new formed mound.

434

Yes, look up from the scene of mourning, where
Nought but a dreary blank thine eyes can see:
Thou hast a brother now in heaven, and there
He waits to welcome thee!

Evelyn.

Dying? Evelyn, darling!
Dying? can it be?
Spring so joyous all around,
Such a spring, so early crowned,
Heralding all summer glee,
Life for everything but thee!
Evelyn, darling, dying?
Yet it is no phantom sound,
Though the word is haunting me;
Thou art lying
Now where life and death do meet,
Thorny path and golden street.
I thought I had no heart to write,
But the pencil near me lay,
Which has traced me many a day,
Dipped in colours dark or bright,
Lays I guessed would meet the sight
Of at least some loving eye,
And perchance be heard again,
Winning echoes far and nigh,
Touching chords of sympathy
In the weary souls of men.
And I took it in my hand,

435

For it seemed to be relief,
After this long week of grief,
Just to let the thought expand,
And the word that haunted me
Just to write; though none shall see
What is written, only He
Who is gently leading thee,
Evelyn, darling, without fears,
Through the vale of death,—and me
Through the vale of tears.

All so calm;—a hazy veil
Falling on the golden west;
Silence, like a minstrel pale,
Preluding the Sabbath rest.
There is night before the dawn
Rise for us of Sabbath morn:
Is there any night for thee
Ere thine eyes the glory see?
Are the angels, bright and strong,
Bearing thy free soul away,
Teaching thee the glad new song,
On the grand star-paven way?
Art thou even now at rest,
Lying on the Saviour's breast?
Evelyn, darling, is it so?
Would, oh, would that I could know!
I can only wait in sorrow
For the tidings of the morrow.

Evelyn, darling, laid so low!
Only three short months ago

436

Thou wert full of life and glee,
Round the laden Christmas tree;
Foremost in the carol-singing,
Fun and frolic gaily flinging.
Tallest, fairest of the troop,
Opening rose on slender stem,
Reigning 'mid the bright-eyed group,
Queen without a diadem;
In thy robe of snowy sheen,
Decked with silken emerald green.
Few there are who ever knew
Merrier holidays than thine,
Whether summer breezes blew,
Or the winter stars did shine.
Evelyn, darling, can it be,
Was that Christmas tree the last?
How believe it, that for thee
Christmas holidays are past!
And that summer leaves will wave,
And the Easter moon will shine,
Over the first household grave,
First,—and thine!

I am not praying,—prayer is hushed,
God's hand is laid upon my heart;
The earthly hope for ever crushed,
The heavenly answered, not in part,
But fully, perfectly! I prayed
For life, and He hath given the life
Which triumphs o'er the grave's cold shade;
For peace, and He hath ended strife
And spoken love. There have been tears

437

And earnest pleadings through long years;
But He is faithful to His word,
I know at last that He has heard.
But not, oh not as I had thought
In ignorant and selfish love,
The Master calls,—she tarries not,
For He hath need of her above.
The lambs He gathers with His arm
No grief, no sin, no death can harm,
So safely folded on His breast,
For ever and for ever blest.
Could God Himself give more? His will
Is best, though we are weeping still.

Yet the old cry comes again,
Evelyn, darling, dying!
Is it true, or is it dreaming?
Is it only ghastly seeming
Of a sorrow far away,
Not to fall for many a day?
If I saw thee lying,
I might realize it so!
Last I saw thee in the glow
Of thy brightest health and bloom;
Was it only for the tomb?
Then the sorrow grows with this—
Not a word of fond good-bye,
Not one tender parting kiss,
Not one glance of loving eye!
Well I know it could not be!
God's appointed way for me
Was assuredly—‘Be still,

438

Wait in silence for His will.’
Father, I have said Amen,
Said it often, now again!
Father, strengthen it and seal!
Let my weary spirit feel
I am very near to Thee,
For Thy hand is laid on me,—
Though the shadows gather deep,
Thou canst calm and aid and keep.

Father, where the shadows fall
Deeper yet, deepest of all,
Send Thy peace, and show Thy power
In affliction's direst hour;
To each mourning heart draw near,
Soothe and bless, sustain and cheer.
Thou wilt hear, I know not how!
Thou canst help, ‘and only Thou.’
This my prayer I leave with Thee.
Father! hear and answer me
For the sake of Him who knows
All our love and all our woes.

Starlight through the Shadows.

I.

Thy dear one is with jesus now!
Seeing Him face to face,
Gazing upon His own belovèd brow,
Watching His smile of grace;
Hearing the Master's voice in all its sweetness,
Knowing Him now in all His own completeness;

439

With Jesus now, with Him for ever!
Never to leave Him—grieve Him never!
Could God Himself give more? His will
Is best, though we are weeping still.

II.

He knows!
Yes, Jesus knows! just what you cannot tell
He understands so well!
The silence of the heart is heard,
He does not need a single word,
He thinks of you;
He watcheth, and He careth too,
He pitieth, He loveth! All this flows
In one sweet word: ‘He knows!’

III.

There shall be no more pain! Not any more!
All weariness, all faint exhaustion o'er,
No quivering nerve, no aching unconfessed,
No memory of misery to cast
One shadow from the past
Upon the unshadowed splendour of His rest!
Beloved! God is leading thee to this,
Preparing thee for thy preparing bliss.

IV.

When thou passest through the waters,
I will be with thee!
Sure and sweet and all-sufficient
Shall His Presence be.

440

All God's billows overwhelmed Him
In the great Atoning Day;
Now He only leads thee through them,
With thee all the way.

In Loyal and Loving Remembrance of H.R.H. the Princess Alice.

Two nations mourn! The same great grief is known
By human hearts on either side the sea,
Mourning with those who yet must mourn alone
Upon the silent height where only He
Can come and whisper comfort, who hath worn
The lonely diadem of cruel thorn.

Mourning for her whose royal love hath shown
Secrets of comfort in the darkest days;
Who, like her Master, stooping from a throne
The suffering or the lost could heal or raise;
Leaving, like Him, example pure and bright,
For court or cottage home a starry light.

Two nations mourn; a hand from each would lay
Fair flowers and simple verse upon her tomb to-day.

Written to accompany a memorial wreath of white roses and palm leaves, painted by the Baroness Helga von Cramm.

University of Virginia Library

I. VOLUME I.

The Ministry of Song.

Prelude.

The Ministry of Song.

Our Hidden Leaves.

Threefold Praise.

Haydn—Mendelssohn—Handel.

I. PART I. Haydn's ‘Creation.’

II. PART II. Mendelssohn's ‘Elijah.’

III. PART III. Handel's ‘Messiah.’

Not Yet.

Thanksgiving.

Life-Crystals.

Not your own.

Wounded.

Whose I am.

Whom I serve.

Peace.

God's Message.

TO HIM THAT IS FAR OFF.

AND TO HIM THAT IS NEAR.

‘A great Mystery.’

Be not Weary.

The Great Teacher.

Auntie's Lessons.

Rest.

One Question, Many Answers.

Content.

Misunderstood.

Sunbeams in the Wood.

The Star Shower.

Treasure Trove.

Coming Summer.

September 1868.

Early Faith.

Our Father.

Disappointment.

The Song Chalice.

Silent in Love.

Light and Shade.

No Thorn without a Rose.

Yesterday, To-day, and for Ever.

A GREEK ACROSTIC, THRICE TRIPLED.

Αει.

Christ's Recall.

Faith's Question.

‘I did this for thee! What hast thou done for Me?’

Isaiah xxxiii. 17.

God the Provider.

Wait patiently for Him.

This Same Jesus.

Mary's Birthday.

Daily Strength.

The Right Way.

Thy Will be done.

‘The Things which are Behind.’

‘Now I see.’

Everlasting Love.

‘Master, say on!’

Remote Results.

On the Last Leaf.

How Should They Know Me?

Making Poetry.

The Cascade.

Constance De V---.

AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF CHARLES MAURICE, PRINCE DE TALLEYRAND.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.