"Get thee hence to the cell and the scourge !" The priest in his anger doth urge,

"Or the fire of the stake thou shalt prove, "Maintaining with blasphemous tongue "That the mass-book and censer, high swung, "Cannot cast out the demon of Love."

Then the Highest stept down from his place, While the depths of his wonderful face

The thrill of compassion did move : "Come, hide thee," he cried, "in this breast: "I summon the weary to rest;

"With love I exorcise thy love."

Etter Clementine Howat

RUFUS THE KING.

One morn in summer's glory,
Beneath an old oak hoary,
This wild romantic story
I heard a poet sing:-
How once, the wassail ended,
By lords and dukes attended,
From castle well defended,
Rode Rufus the King.

The huntsman's bugle sounded,

The fiery coursers bounded,
And he, by guards surrounded,
Rushed on with reckless spring,

Till soon, a by-way choosing,
All company refusing,

His path in forest losing

Rode Rufus the King.

The darkness gathered o'er him,
An unknown path before him,
And still his courser bore him

As on an eagle's wing:

Till sudden came a crashing,

A steed in fury dashing,

And blood the green sward splashing,
Near Rufus the King.

The morning broke in splendor,

And help as true and tender
As woman's hand could render
Did to the monarch bring.
One in her girlhood flying
From his unhallowed sighing
Pillowed the head in dying
Of Rufus the King.

This tale of days departed,
Of woman faithful-hearted,
Just to my memory started,

This balmy day in Spring;
But sleeping pale and gory
In manhood's April glory
Is he who sang this story
Of Rufus the King.

THQU WILT NEVER GROW OLD.

Thou wilt never grow old,

Nor weary nor sad, in the home of thy birth;

My beautiful lily, thy leaves will unfold

In a clime that is purer and brighter than earth.

O holy and fair, I rejoice thou art there,

In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold; Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where Thou wilt never grow old, sweet

Never grow old!

I am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin

Haunting my footsteps wherever I go;

Life is a warfare my title to win,—

Well will it be if it end not in woe.

Pray for me, sweet, I am laden with care;

Dark are my garments with mildew and mould;
Thou, my bright angel, art sinless and fair,
And wilt never grow old, sweet,

Never grow old!

Now, canst thou hear from thy home in the skies,
All the fond words I am whispering to thee?
Dost thou look down on me with the soft eyes
Greeting me oft ere thy spirit was free?
So, I believe, though the shadows of Time

Hide the bright spirit I yet shall behold;
Thou wilt still love me, and, pleasure sublime,
Thou wilt never grow old, sweet,

Never grow old!

Thus wilt thou be when the pilgrim, grown gray,

Weeps when the vines from the hearth-stone are riven;

Faith shall behold thee, as pure as the day

Thou wert torn from the earth and transplanted to

Heaven.

O, holy and fair, I rejoice thou art there,

In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold, Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where Thou wilt never grow old, sweet,

Never grow old!

THE PASSION-FLOWER.

I plucked it in an idle hour

And placed it in my book of prayer:

"Tis not the only passion-flower

That hath been crushed and hidden there;

And now through floods of burning tears

My withered bloom once more I see, And I lament the long, long years,

The wasted years afar from Thee.

My flower is emblem of the bright
"First fervor" that my spirit knew,
A dream of beauty, joy and light,-

Now pale and dead it meets my view.
What is there left of dream or flower
But ashes? Take, I pray, from me,
All my vain thoughts of fame and power,
And draw my spirit nearer Thee!

I have no olive leaf to bring

From the wild waste of waters dark; For like the dove, my weary wing

Can find no refuge but the ark.
Take me once more to thy true breast,

Save me from passion's stormy sea:
There is on earth no place of rest
For my wild spirit save in Thee.

Oh! would some prophet might arise
To touch my lips with fervent fire!
Would some bright spirit from the skies
Might tune to sacred strains my lyre!
With soul refined from earthly dross,
And heart from human passions free,
I'd be the laureate of the Cross
And dedicate my life to Thee.

My passion-flower was once a part
Of this high vision of renown,
But now within its withered heart
I see the cross but not the crown;