For while the Resurrection waves its signs august, Like morning's dew-bright banners on a cloudless sky, My weak feet cling enamored to the parching dust, And the vain sands' poor pebbles lure my roving eye. By loneliness or hunger turn and re-create me! Ordain whatever masters in Thy saving school. Let the whole prosperous host of Fashion's flatterers hate me, So Thou wilt henceforth bless me with Thy gracious rule. I pray not to be saved, O risen Lord, from sorrow; Redeem me only from my fond and mean selflove. Let each long night of wrestling bring a mourning morrow, If thus my heart ascend and dwell with Thee above! Vales of Repentance mount to hills of high Desire; Seven times seven suffering years gain the Sabbatic Rest; Earth's fickle, cruel lap, alternate frost and fire, Tempers beloved disciples for the Master's breast. Our work lies wide; men ache and doubt and die; Thy Ark Shakes in our hands; Reason and Faith, God's son And daughter, fight their futile battle in the dark. Our sluggish eyelids slumber with our task half done. Oh, bleeding Priest of silent, sad Gethsemane,— That second Eden where up springs the Healing Vine, Press from our careless foreheads drops of sweat for Thee! Fill us with sacrificial love for souls, like Thine. Thou who didst promise cheer along with tribulation, Hold up our trust and keep it firm by much enduring; Feed fainting hearts with patient hopes of Thy salvation; Make glorious service, more than luxury's bed, alluring. Hallow our wit with prayer; our mastery steep in meekness; Pour on our stumbling studies Inspiration's light; Hew out for Thy dear Church a Future without weakness, Quarried from Thine eternal Order, Beauty, Might! Met there mankind's great Brotherhood of souls and powers, Raise Thou full praises from its farthest corners dim: Pour down, O steadfast Sun, thy beams on all its towers! Roll through its worldwide space Faith's Eucharistic Hymn! O Way for all that live, win us by pain and loss! Fill all our years with toil-and comfort with Thy rod! Through Thy Ascension cloud, beyond the Cross, Looms on our sight, in peace, the City of our God! FREDERIC DAN HUNTINGTON. THE NINETY AND NINE. THERE were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold, But one was out on the hills away, Far off from the gates of gold— Away on the mountains wild and bare, Away from the tender Shepherd's care. "Lord, thou has here thy ninety and nine; But the Shepherd made answer: "Tis of mine But none of the ransomed ever knew Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through Ere he found his sheep that was lost. "Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way That mark out the mountain's track?" "They were shed for one who had gone astray Ere the Shepherd could bring him back." "Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?" "They are pierced to-night by many a thorn." But all through the mountains, thunder-riven, And the angels echoed around the throne, A MARRIAGE HYMN. "From henceforth no more twain, but one," Yet ever one through being twain; As self is ever lost and won Through love's own ceaseless loss and gain; And both their full perfection reach, Each growing the full self through each. Two in all worship, glad and high, All promises to praise and prayer, "Where two are gathered, there am I;" Gone half the weight from all ye bear, Gained twice the force for all ye doThe ceaseless, sacred Church of two. One in all lowly ministry, One in all priestly sacrifice, Through love which makes all service free, And so, together journeying on To the Great Bridal of the Christ, Peals, "Henceforth no more twain, but one." And in that perfect Marriage Day All earth's lost love shall live once more; All lack and loss shall pass away, And all find all not found before: Till all the worlds shall live and glow In that great love's great overflow. MRS. ELIZABETH RUNDLE CHARLES. EVELYN HOPE. BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead— Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed: She plucked that piece of geranium flower, Beginning to die, too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I thinkThe shutters are shut, no light may pass, Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. Sixteen years old when she died! Pehaps she had scarely heard my name- And now was quiet, now astir- Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? And our paths in the world diverged so wide, No, indeed, for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the loveI claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a fewMuch is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come-at last it will- And your mouth of your own geranium's red And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; My heart seemed full as it could holdThere was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep; A CHILD'S LAUGH. THE merry laugh of the laughing child, 'T is music sweet to hear, Delights the soul from morn till night, In accents loud and clear. ASUNDER. ONCE, when the sun, in slowly dying splendor, Darker and darker grew the sea before us: By endless time, by soundless sea; But I-I love you well enough To leave you, love, if needs must be." Words, thoughtless words! but breathing doubt forbidden; Fears, foolish fears! that love must lull to rest— Not you or I knew then the meaning hidden, Veiled in those words you deemed an idle jest; Now, love! with paths divided, hands asunder, Now we have learned the meaning, you and I, Hid in the misty sky, the dark sea under, Hid in those words I spoke, and knew not why— "Some measure love by gold, By endless time, by soundless sea; But I-I love you well enough To leave you, love, if needs must be." "Come to me for riches,” said the peak ; "I am leafless, cold and calm; But the treasures of the lily and the palm, They are mine to bestow on those who seek. I am gift and I am giver To the verdured fields below, All the paths that led astray, "Come to me for safety," said the height; Road and river end at last Leap from mountain-top to star. JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. -The Pilot, November 16, 1889. STRIKE, STRIKE THY HARP. STRIKE, strike thy harp and wake to life again The long-lost songs that I have loved so well, Whose sweet-linked numbers in my mem'ry dwell Like ling ring echoes of some soft refrain. Some thrill of pleasure, or perchance of pain, Will wake responsive to thy potent spell, And some mute chord within my heart will tell, That thy rich harp-string hath not stirred in vain. Sing, if thou wilt, a strain that shall inspire The smouldering embers, burning in my breast, To glow once more with all their wonted fire. Or, if some gentle mood should please thee best, Then let thy fingers touch the tuneful lyre, To some sweet song to soothe my soul to rest. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT NEWSAM. -For The Magazine of Poetry. "I AM THE BEGINNING AND THE END, THE FIRST AND THE LAST." THE tide ran low, ran very low, ran out; Autumn had settled down upon the land, And Winter's face, the face of death, was sweet, For there was calm, an end of strife and doubt. |