Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Take, O take the magic bowl,
Feed it with most lovely things,
Tears and laughter that will shake the very rafter,
Echoing on in the hereafter,
Light of lilies and the soul
Of our hidden spells and springs,
And the death-bell's passing toll
With the waft of angel wings;
Mix them kindly, mix them madly, dumbly, blindly
With the moonlit dews that rest,
And the red so unconfin'dly
Sleeping on the rose's breast.

Take, O take a virgin heart
From the baby as it dreams
Of its mother and the kisses rained that smother
Lips responding to no other;
Mingle it with masons' art,
Deft to catch the morning gleams,
White on turrets as they start
Upward like embodied beams;
Throw in buttercups and daisies, and the shutter
Dropt by shadows when they fall,
Mirth and melodies that utter
Pain within the woof of all.

Take, O take the lambent fire,
And the cunning flowers of frost
Dimly painted on the windows as if sainted
And for evermore untainted;
Blend them with the marriage tire
Of a maiden loved and lost,

And ineffable desire
For the pathway yet uncrost;
Freely scatter snow, and honeyed words that flatter
Fools and still have something true,
Grace of children and their chatter,
And a blessed rift of blue.

Take, O take from clouded skies
Thunder, and of purple air
Bloom and winning charms from breezes all a-spinning
Webs that break and keep beginning;
Add to colour where it lies
On the cheek and haunting hair
Of a woman's sorceries,
Innocent that she is fair;
Join to clamour of the strife that secret glamour
Softening low the steps of lust,
And on waves that stir and stammer
Cast a handful of gray dust.

WHITE WINGS—A THEOPHANY.

There was silence in the city, there was silence on the lea
When that fateful voice went forth
Through the night, into the north,
And the leaves that made a music like the murmur of the sea,
As in sounds of solemn worth
Rode the White Wings on the stillness that responded to their plea;
For that vision
With decision
Cut the vapours, as they hung
Like a curtain
In uncertain
Light, and as a censer swung;
And the oaring of those White Wings was a wonder to the eye,

While they voyaged grandly on
As of old in Babylon,
With a message for the earth life, and a mission from the sky,
That reached out into the future, and reached back across the past,
Calling man of peace and slayer
From their slothful dreams to prayer
And the holy preparations of the vigil and the fast—
“O ye sinners who transgress,
Come to penance and confess,
And your evil deeds redress,
While the door of grace is open and the hours of mercy last.”

And beneath the ancient belfry in the shadow of the tower,
With the magic of the moon
And its candle, that would soon
Be extinguished by the sun-blaze as it burst again in flower,
Death was waiting for its boon
And a quiet resurrection when the White Wings gave it power;
For the mortal
From its portal
Then once more in beauty broke,
And the sleeping
Graces keeping
Their long trysting-time awoke;
As they heard that cry of ages, in their centuried retreat
And their fellowship with dust,
Which aroused the quickening trust
And the seed of everlastingness that could not own defeat;
While it robbed the grave of victory, and took from fear the sting,
Calling through the earthly layer,
“O ye corpses, come to prayer,

For your trance is but a trouble that will final glory bring
To the darkness of the clods,
And the winter rains like rods,
Ye shall yet up spring as gods,
And those crumbling frames be crowned with delight—arise and sing!”

But the White Wings seemed to order me to follow as they flew,
As they floated like a cloud
Which was shaping in a shroud
Some new miracle of life, that of the mist and starlight grew,
Till the night wind waxing proud
Of the marvel and the mystery its gentle trumpet blew;
And a whisper
Clear and crisper,
As it gathered of all good
From the numbers
And the slumbers
Of the water and the wood,
Like the speaking of the Universal Spirit fell on me;
And it kindled me like fire,
With an infinite desire,
And those White Wings seemed a symbol of the better things to be;
While it trembled on my heart-strings like a finger on a lute,
Calling doers and the sayer
To the awful shrine of prayer,
Where the shining walls are worship and the shouts of passion mute,
“O ye peoples of the lands
Come with praises in your hands
That will wash away the brands,
And array you in the righteousness of the Divine repute.”

Thus I seemed to flit for ages over map-like sea and shore,

And uncharted earth and sky,
Where the White Wings rustled by
With the burden of the warning that to every clime they bore,
As from old eternity,
While the dry bones stirred behind them and the heavens flamed out before;
And I pondered
As I wandered
Through the chambers of the air,
Would my travel
Now unravel,
The dark riddles of despair?
But none answered, though I followed the one watchman of the night,
As he uncompanioned sped
On his task unpiloted
In the dreadfulness of twilight and his ministering flight;
And a ghostly presence bathed me in a rapture more than bliss,
Calling drudge alike and player
To the marriage feast of prayer,
When before the sob of penitence comes absolution's kiss—
“O ye sinners, who are lost
Or by gusts of craving tost,
The grim border can be crost,
And the White Wings yet shall carry you safe o'er the black abyss.”

And now ever when the evening falls and owls begin to sweep
On their broad majestic vans,
With another way than man's,
I go sailing with the White Wings through the spaces dim and deep,
And decipher the dark plans
Of the margin of the mysteries that haunt the worlds of sleep;

And no stigma
Of enigma
Now is bitter as of old,
And rate petals
Like rich metals
In the silent hours unfold;
I go sailing with those White Wings over mountain, moor and dale,
Over forest, fields and brooks
Which to me are open books,
And they sigh to me their secrets of the far and future tale;
But the Voice proclaims its teaching to the inward upturned eye,
Calling pilgrim soul and stayer
To themselves in solemn prayer,
While the Vision gives them seeing of the sacred euphrasy,
“O ye dead at length upstart,
And ye thoughts that death impart
From the white and new-washed heart
Take its colour, till each skeleton is a theophany.”

WHITE ROSE.

There it lay in the terrible slough of the slums,
There it lay in the gutter and mire,
And it burned with the beauty of fire
That repelled the rude grasp of the envious thumbs,
And hard fingers that quarrelled with dogs for mere crumbs,
But shrunk back from one dainty desire;
There it lay
In broad day,
A white rose,
That looked bigger and brighter,
And fairer and whiter
Because of its muddy repose.

How it came in that squalid and pestilent gloom,
With its message of mercy and light
For the shadow more dreadful than night,
No one knew as they gazed at the delicate bloom
All askance when they passed to the sin and the doom,
Though they felt and they hated their blight;
No one knew
Where it grew,
Whence it dropt,
As it seemed to wax sweeter
And blossom completer,
But no one to gather it stopt.

There it lay in the thick of the horror and shame
Like a challenge from heaven sent down,
To the drab with her mud-spattered gown
And the creature unsexed, and but woman in name;
While to each it seemed different—awful as flame,
A reproach, or the glimpse of a crown;
There it lay
On their way,
A white rose,
Just like silvery metal,
No stain in a petal,
As if it had more to disclose.

Now and then some went slower and almost stood still,
A rough child that if tended were fair
With the halo not fled from his hair
Which the angels had fondled, before his blind will
In the darkness around him as comrade chose ill,
Or a girl with yet innocent air;
But none could,
And none would
Venture quite
For a moment to linger
Or touch with a finger,
That purity dreadful and white.

Till at last from the mob and the misery crept
A lame girl with the glory of fears,
And the jewels of penitent tears;

While virginity that had so long in her slept,
Now awoke as from dreams, and in melody leapt
To the early desire of the years;
Sweet and low
In the glow
Of delight,
Down she knelt with her meanness
And conscious uncleanness,
That turned a sick bloom to the light.

With a thrill of unworthiness flushing her face,
Then she guiltily thrust in her breast
The strange prize that in passion was prest,
And the freshness with all its ineffable grace
In a moment came back to her tender embrace,
As a homing shy bird to its nest;
There it grew,
There it blew,
As with those
Who are true to their nature
And rise to full stature,
With roots in her heart—the White Rose.

WHITE WORDS.

There was worship in heaven and wonder on earth
When the white queen of purity spoke,
And the pauper forgot all the bondage of dearth,
While the ashes leapt up and awoke,
As they broke
Into beauty and blossom of fire;
The dead hearts renewed ancient desire,
And wan maidens their snowy attire;
For her voice had the glamour and gladness of truth
And the thoughts were themselves all in rhyme
With the dew and delight and enchantment of youth
And the infinite story of time.

Not the words of our wisdom the fair and the fit,
Not the speech of the reverend sage
With his splendour of learning and sparkle of wit,
In the mellowing harvest of age;
Not a page
From the richest resultings of years;
But a music that fell on the ears,
With the babble of song birds and tears;
And the voice of the spirit that pierces the soul
As the arrow that goes to its mark,
And brings back to the deaf their departed control
With a murmur of morn in the dark.

From her lips flew the message of virginal life,
A new ministry breathed in old names
On the hardness and squalor of bestial strife,
And the vilest of shadows and shames;
Winged flames,
That set animal natures aglow
With a freshness no art could bestow.
As if heaven surged up from below;
Crystal flakes which alit on the petrified rest
With a soft'ning appeal, and were such
That they kindled at once the dull stone of the breast
Into glory and grace with their touch.

Words of hope from the depths of an infinite joy,
Like the whisper of Spring in the air,
That just seemed as they dropt to consume the alloy
And the evil of all things not fair—
To repair
What was broken with promise of dawn,
And its colours of paradise drawn
On gray brothel as on the green lawn;
For she spoke as a queen who has passed beyond hell
And yet carries the scorching and stain,
And has tasted all sacraments trial can tell
Being crowned with the crowning of pain.

Warm white words from the fountain of love and the light
Freely scattered as jewels on all,

That were seeds of a manhood to come in its might,
The auguster because of its fall
And the pall;
For she uttered herself, and the blind
Yet in her did their heritage find,
And partook of that beautiful mind;
She came down to the sorrow and down to the sin,
She was one with the feeble and faint,
She revealed to the meanest the marvels within,
And in rags the sweet aureoled saint.

Ah, they listened to her, the poor, starving and stained
As they drank in the music of hope,
While the captives remembered no more they were chained,
And the murderer saw not the rope,
But the slope.
That leads up to blue roses of skies,
As he gazed with his red rheumy eyes,
And beheld a new Eden arise;
For the halt, and the maimed, and the crippled in heart
Everyone found some quickening tone,
A new life that sent shoots through the sickliest part
Within each, as for each all alone.

THE COMING OF THE WHITE SOUL.

She was wrapt in a garment of snow,
She was bathed in the beauty of fire,
While her eyes had a heavenly glow,
And her breath was a holy desire,
When she came,
Sweet as blossoms of flame,
With a love that burned brighter than wine
And a tenderness human, divine,
Robing round
In a passion profound
All the horror and evil and shame—
When she came.

There was silence in Heaven, and earth
For a season of worship stood still,
And the poverty dreamed not of dearth,
While the famishing once had their fill;
When she came,
With the wonderful Name
That is whispered by angels in awe,
The new service that springs not from law,
And the light
That is perfected might,
To transform each unvirginal frame—
When she came.

There was movement in desolate graves,
And a rustling of beautiful wings,
While the drudges forgot they were slaves
And in dignity rose up as kings;
When she came,
And the lepers and lame
Started forth from the gloom of their dens,
And remembered their bodies were men's,
And their hearts
Should play worthier parts,
And had finished with fretting and blame—
When she came.

There was lisping of joy in the air,
And a stirring of all the dry bones,
As when birds are beginning to pair,
And the leaves laugh in musical tones;
When she came,
As serene and the same
As the march of a conquerer's tread,
And the buds from the darkness and dead
Leapt to life,
And the dolorous strife
Of the ages felt one who could tame—
When she came.

THE MAKING OF THE WHITE SOUL.

Fired with the battle fever, tost upon iron waves
Still by the grim deceiver death among open graves,
Vainly I sought the purging needed by my sick breast,
All in the bloody surging, all in the red unrest.
Wounded but yet no cleaner, broken but yet the same,
Dying but yet the meaner out of the wreck I came.
Where should I bathe my sorrows, where should I wash me white,
Ere the avenging morrow's reckoning infinite?
Death only mocked me ever though I pursued its path,
Cleansed not my wild endeavour with its refining wrath.
Then within court and column sought I the blessèd balm,
Craved with devotion solemn, wooed in the sacred psalm;
Gazing my eyes grew moister, fixed on the fateful cross,
Sealed in the silent cloister armed to assay my dross.
Vainly I met the lashes, vainly I did endure
Sackcloth and fast and ashes—still I remained impure.
How should I lose my tainted nature and make me white,
Clothed in apparel sainted, holiness infinite?
Then by my awful study, eager I hoped to leave
Sin and pollution muddy, holding me down a slave;
Digging the dusty treasure torn from the jealous years,
Reaping a sober pleasure purchased with time and tears;
Turning the yellow pages hourly and day and night,
Torturing sere old ages still for the questioned light.
Vainly I asked each sentence all that from flesh might wean,
Vainly I read repentance—still I abode unclean.
When should I drop my chaining rags for a vesture white,
Weaving instead of staining comeliness infinite?
So in the woe and welter made by the miry street
Merged I forsook the shelter cold as a winding sheet;
Hailed in the lost my brothers gained from no musty shelf,
Hoping at last in others thus to redeem myself.

Bravely I put my shoulder now to a humble part,
Gathering grace and bolder strength for my hungry heart,
Till from the kindly toiling done in the common way,
Slowly the sin and soiling faded and fell away;
While, though by tardy stages, dawned like a sunrise sure,
Blessings not bought by wages, giving a franchise pure;
And to my empty bosom, till it possessed the whole,
Breaking all into blossom, beautiful came the Soul.
For, as the shadow dwindled, waxed the new nature white,
Shedding a peace that kindled happiness infinite.

THE WHITE THOUGHT.

In Mente Dei.

Hid in the mind of God beautiful there it lay,
Pure as a world untrod, shy as an opening day;
Virginal, the White Thought brooded on joys to be,
Ravishment yet unwrought, mightiness of the sea;
All in Divinity draped breathing of earth and sky,
Infinite and unshaped dream of Eternity.

Moved in the mind of God, wonderful as the beams
Spilled on a moonlit sod, splashed upon mountain streams;
Thought as refined as gold, big with most blessèd things,
Seeking the meetest mould where to expand its wings;
Yearning for outward form somewhere at last in Time,
Stronger than winter storm, soft as a silver chime.

Fed in the mind of God, craving a holy vent
Whence it might make the clod glow as the firmament;
Thought that would roll the earth drooping with shame and lack,
Out of its dusky dearth into a broader track;
Sweet as the heart of a child, dim as love's refuges,
Splen did as undefil'd soul of the silences.

THE WHITE SERVICE.

Come, lay one hand upon the cross and lift one hand to Heaven,
And swear whatever be the loss to purge out all the leaven
Of evil from they treacherous heart, and do a soldier's worthy part
Unsoiled by sinful revel;
To guard the Church, which others trod in rapine, by the grace of God
Against the world and Devil.
Come, kneel and keep a trustful tryst from midnight to the morning
Alone with the White Blessèd Christ in simple unadorning,
Within the shadow of this fane beneath the storied blood-red pane
That breathes a brighter morrow;
If in this ghostly place at length thy Lord may clothe thee with His strength
And cleanse thee in His sorrow.

With all my priestly power I bid thee weep and wait thy season,
And hold the watch our Captain did on that dark night of treason;
To face the banded hosts of ill with armèd breast and iron will,
And prayers shot up like arrows.
The death-bell, it may be, will toll the sin away that sears thy soul,
When darkness round thee narrows.
Lay down thy head and keep the tryst which saints have kept for ever,
These hours with the White Blessed Christ by true and strong endeavour,
In penance and the bitter woe which is the demon's dying throe
That parts not but by rending;

And ere the dawn upon thee shakes its shafts and sunrise in thee wakes,
May come the conqueror's ending.

Perchance the Lord will tarry long, or break on thee in thunder,
And crashing with the tempest song burst the black night asunder;
Perchance in visits of the moon the love that lives will meet thee soon
In bridal sweet and solemn,
And somewhere in this reverend wall will rise the dear expected call
From cloistered depth or column.
But be thou brave and keep the tryst which all must keep who cherish
The faith of the White Blessed Christ and for that faith would perish;
Perchance with calm compelling voice that makes the saddest heart rejoice
He will descend in meekness,
Who feels for thy exceeding shame and has put on our mortal frame
And knows each want and weakness.

Come, lay one hand upon the cross and lift to Heaven the other,
And swear the world to thee is dross and every man thy brother,
And thou wilt never stain thy life with brutish lust or sordid strife
But deem thy purpose holy,
And treasure pure as linen fine thy garments by the grace Divine
In service fair and lowly.
Come, keep the one last dreadful tryst in lonely dedication
Apart with the White Blessed Christ to win His consecration,

And let no anguish for the past or fear of future care o'ercast
Thy settled great decision;
Then shalt thou wash within the flood of His most awful saving Blood
And thou shalt see the Vision.

WHITE HANDS.

I had a longing for white hands, that waved
In some dim land of moonlight
That knew no garish noonlight,
Where never wind of trouble roamed and raved;
Where all was hushed and holy,
The falling leaf fell slowly,
And none for aught in that sweet plenty craved;
Where hope sufficed to have, and will was power
And rushed in ripe fruition,
Without the long transition
Of seed and blade and bud, to perfect flower;
I had a longing for white hands, that called for me in evening lands.

I sought the vision of white hands, that lay
In beauty more than blessing
And peace beyond caressing,
On love as shadows on a dying day;
That with no mortal motion
In tune with my devotion
Might for a honeyed season with me stay;
I knew a magic virtue flowed from such,
And in a passion tender
My spirit to full splendour
Would leap beneath that soft transforming touch;
I sought a vision of white hands, where purple waves kissed golden sands.

I found the healing of white hands, that fell
As dew on grass at morning,
Just in their own adorning,

As gentle starlight on the city bell;
And O the quiet rapture
Of that exceeding capture,
Which opened in my breast its hidden well!
And not by vulgar ways with sordid hire
Did I attain the wonder,
And burst my bars asunder,
I passed to it through angry flood and fire;
I found the healing of white hands, that were to me as God's commands.

I keep the glory of white hands, that lie
Upon my brow and bosom,
And make my being blossom
And link to love with sacramental tie;
They come with kindly graces
From sweet and sudden places,
And build for me the home that cannot die;
Before the dawning or when lights are low,
And owls begin to stutter,
I feel, I hear them flutter
Betwixt the earth and heaven in gloom and glow;
I keep the glory of white hands, that bind my heart like wedding-bands.

WHITE FEET.

Lo, they came in the darkness, they came in the grief
When my burden was heavy to bear,
In the sorrow and night that was not a relief
Nor a robe that the wretched might wear;
They were little white feet and delicious and sweet
In the fashion of snow flakes and air,
As if silence and gloom had just burst into bloom
And a form the most winsome and fair;
As if out of the dew and the rapture and bliss
Of the moment that never comes twice,
Love had sent me a sign that makes nothing amiss
And that cannot be bought with a price.

I was troubled and torn, and despair shut me in
To the shadow of shame and my woe
That was deeper than thought and more dreadful than sin,
As if I had myself turned my foe;
Then those little white feet that were maiden and meet
For the message I sought for in vain,
From the horrible husk of the death and the dusk
Came in pity and ease for my pain;
And the curtain of blackness around me all broke
Into roses of purple and light,
And the joy at the heart of my sadness awoke
Like a morning of June in its might.

And I fancied they said to me “Follow the way
Which we tread through the travailing years,
For wherever we go there is always the day
And a golden horizon appears!”
Then those little white feet that were holy and fleet
On the errands of kindness and care,
Went before me in love as they raised me above
The old anguish and evil I bare;
O they were not of woman, they were not of child,
But partook of the beauties of both,
They were softer than music and never defil'd,
And with mine kept the tenderest troth.

If I doubt in the journey of life what is best,
If I step for a season aside,
Then they seem to be walking in tears on my breast
And the depths of my being divide;
Yes, those little white feet guide me straight in the street
And in pleasure and mourning and toil,
For they cannot lead wrong and they move as to song
And they gather no blemish or soil;
Ah, I know when I come to the border at length
Of the River that flows for us all,
They will brighten before me the gulf in their strength
And their purity—lest I should fall.

WHITE BOSOMS.

It was done, I cannot say why and where I may not tell,
Somewhere before blush of day, somehow ere the matin bell;
Sweet white bosoms came to me 'twixt the gleaming and the gloom,
Wonderful and soft to see, dear and terrible as doom
In the sureness of the pureness
Which alone doth make man free, giving to the spirit room;
Curtained was each face from light, shrouded were the limbs and form,
In a shadow rosy bright simply showed the rapture warm
Swelling now to sudden flower, swooning then in secret bliss,
With the poetry of power gathered to a crimson kiss.

All my passion, all my heart surged to meet that gentle thing,
Thrilling through my every part till my being seemed to sing;
Sweet white bosoms kindly came thus into my lonely lot,
With the clearness as of flame and a splendour without spot;
Drawing nearer still and clearer
In the shyness more than shame, yet with love that wavered not;
Beckoning to something glad, something that desired to bless
Far beyond the joys I had, in their dumb deliciousness;
And I felt around me curl'd arms as delicate as air,
Fragrance of a finer world where is nothing but the fair.

Then the black breasts of the night which had made me sadly err
Melted into misty flight, with a silence sinister;
Sweet white bosoms took their place by a modest miracle,
Breathing everywhere a grace uttered but ineffable;

And my feelings' grand revealings
Waxed as infinite as space, in their golden crucible:
Virgin fancies, vestal thought veiled in holiest attire
Of their nakedness and wrought from delight and from desire,
Floated under me and round, till I seemed with throbbing charms
By some ecstasy enwound in all lovely women's arms.

THE WHITE LIFE.

What is the long life? What is the strong life
Showing the clue,
Giving their hue
Still to the stages run by the ages, written on pages
Noble and true?
Is it the iron arms that environ
Natures more hard,
Stubborn and starr'd
Over with graces of the grim traces on the sad places
Fighting has scarr'd?
This is not all life, this is the small life,
Bloody and barr'd.

What is the sweet life? What the complete life,
Beautiful, fond,
Pointing beyond
Our little trouble past as a bubble, gone as the stubble,
Though we despond?
Is it the rounded lot that is bounded
Gently by lore
Heaping up store,
Commune with tender spirits of splendour fain to surrender
Freely yet more?
This is not brave life, this is a slave life,
Not the real ore.

What is the pure life? What the secure life
Making men live,
Eager to give
Better than glory and the pale story haloed with gory
Light fugitive?
Is it the wizened fate of the prisoned
Saint in his cell,
Hugging the shell
Shut on the embers left by his members' fire that remembers
Weakness too well?
This cannot be life, this is not free life—
Bible and bell.

What is the great life? What is the straight life
Conquering ill,
Able to fill
Hearts in each corner, grief of the mourner, doubt of the scorner,
One with God's will?
It is the serving glad and unswerving
Ever of man,
Just as we can,
Leaving the blotted world with its spotted husks that have rotted,
Spent with their span;
This is the White Life, this infinite life
Perfect of plan.

THE WHITE BOOK.

Who shall open the Book?—First, the reveller came
With lascivious look and the shadow of shame
And inglorious dust on his brow;
Though he reeked of the cup, yet he stoutly stood up
Fresh from breaking the holiest vow;
And the roses that clung to his forehead and hung
On the blighted remains of a man,
Had the vagrant and fragrant reproaching of wine

While accusing abusing of treasures divine,
And looked back to the lovelier plan;
But the White Book remained yet as solemn and sealed,
With its joys unexplained and its rest unrevealed.

Who shall open the Book?—The philosopher came
From his studious nook and unblotted by blame,
And his front was a thunderous throne,
While his glorious eyes shone as infinite skies
From the work that was lofty and lone;
The imperious fire of his daring desire,
With the thoughts that had journeyed through space,
And yet travelled unravelled retreats of the truth
Gave a second unreckoned and mightier youth,
And like sunrise lay broad on his face;
But the White Book in awe and in secret composed,
Still remained with its law and the light undisclosed.

Who shall open the Book?—Then the moralist came
With the shepherding crook and his virtuous fame,
And the Pharisee frowned from his dress,
In his forms so secure, with decorum demure
And his dogmas no more and no less;
But he set a cold hand like the winter's command
On the reverend tome as it lay,
With the sureness of pureness though merely on skin
If it varnished and garnished the outside of sin,
And he met a new terrible ray;
For the White Book remained in its mystical lore,
With the sense unattained and as dark as before.

Who shall open the Book?—Then a Pariah came,
And the passion that shook him was burning as flame—
He was ragged and troubled and torn;
But he thirsted for love, and his gaze looked above,
Though his bosom was pierced by the thorn;
And he knelt humbly down with the cross as his crown,
But in faith that would fashion a globe;
And his meanness grew cleanness before those great beams

While his craving was saving as poetry's dreams,
And his rags made the kingliest robe;
But the White Book in power to his beautiful care
Opened out like a flower, and its burden stood bare.

THE WHITE GOD.

Out of the nor'land, under the foreland it blew,
Wind of a jubilant tone
Touching the heart that was stone,
Happily telling hope not for selling—and grew;
Out of the south-land, warm from the drouth-land, arose
Waft of a miracle fair,
Chanted abroad in the air
Rich with its capture, breathing the rapture—repose;
Far from the east land, mystery's feast-land, the tale
Murmured on musical strings
Measures of pageants and kings,
Speaking in wonder, waxing in thunder a gale;
Last on the west-land, bloom of the best land, He trod
Victor in triumph and tears
Born of the yearning of years,
Great beyond seeming the one redeeming White God.

Pen cannot write it, fame not indite it—the truth,
How He in majesty stept
Stilling the sadness that wept,
Shedding around Him light that enwound Him with youth;
Wrapt in a splendour dread but as tender as sleep,
Keeping all cares as His own
Treasures though mean and unknown,
Mild as maternity, yet as eternity deep;
Birds to the Master, waited for, faster still flew
As to the kisses of morn,
Fearing no buffet of scorn—
Outcasts of city bathed in the pity that drew;
All that was weakness all that was meekness and shod

Humbly and shamefully here
Won a safe refuge and sphere
More than a dwelling, in the compelling White God.
Children with laughter met Him and after Him ran,
Feeling a Brother and Child
Also in Him when He smil'd,
Finding their places in His embraces and plan;
Grandeur before Him stooped to adore Him who led
Taking its crown from Him back,
Plenty without Him seemed lack—
Dross from the metal, stain from the petal, both fled;
Evil and sadness, mischief and madness, reproached
Shrunk in the ruin they plied,
Envy was famished and died,
Dearth that had dimly fallen and grimly encroached;
Shades of affliction, war's malediction and rod
Melted or turned to a staff,
Gold from the sickliest chaff
Sprang at the healing of the revealing White God.