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 Cornell University Library 
 PR 4728.G3A6 1906 
 
 Selected poems from the writings of Dora 
 
 3 1924 013 459 726 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013459726 
 
SELECTED POEMS 
 
 FROM THE WRITINBS OP 
 
 DOHA GRBENWELL 
 
These are the many- coloured beads of "life. 
 Blame me not, gentle reader, if their hues 
 Should please thee little, for I did but choose 
 And thread them where I found them, by the strife 
 Of Time's great ocean cast upon the shore ; 
 Stay thou with me awhile and tell them o'er. 
 
Selected Poein$ 
 
 FROM THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 Dora Greenwell 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BT 
 
 CONSTANCE L. MAYNARD 
 
 MISTRESS OF WESTPIELD COLLEGE, DKlVEIiSITY OF LONDON 
 
 Et Teneo iLfiJ ^ \ et Teneor 
 
 LONDON 
 
 H. R. ALLENSON, LIMITED 
 
 RACQUET COURT, FLEET STREET, E.C. 
 1906 
 
 Li I 
 
P^U$X1 
 
 i- 
 
PREFACE 
 
 T^HIRTY years after an author ceases to write is 
 generally about the earliest opportunity that 
 a true appreciation can be made of his worth to 
 the world. The Rev. Alan Greenwell has kindly 
 allowed me to re-edit his sister's poems at discre- 
 tion, and I now offer them to the public. That 
 the first volume must consist of Carmina Cruets 
 whole and entire there could be no doubt, for there 
 we have the very gem and jewel of her thought. 
 This, the second volume, is more complex, and 
 needs a little explanation. 
 
 Miss Greenwell first published a slender book of 
 poems in 1848, when she was twenty-seven years 
 of age ; and these verses, though doubtless up to the 
 average level of her time, are worth but little, and 
 only two have been here preserved. By 1861 her 
 mind had matured and a far better volume was 
 brought out, of which eighteen poems are here 
 given. In 1867 she had reached the midsummer 
 of her life, which was characterised by a rare 
 wealth of thought and feeling ; and the volume then 
 published contains many a blossom we would not 
 willingly let die, and of these twenty more are 
 added. Her crowning year, the year of Carmina 
 Crucis, was 1869. In 1873 she wrote the eight 
 Songs of Salvation, which describe the practical 
 application of faith to the lives of the simple 
 and the partially educated ; and they have been 
 
vi Preface 
 
 loved of many who knew not the author's name. 
 These are here given entire ; and they show so 
 diflferent a side of her varied and wonderful mind, 
 that they are placed at the end with some words 
 of separate introduction. In 18V3 she also wrote 
 The Soul's Legend, a small book consisting chiefly 
 of three mysterious prose-poems which are here 
 given in full ; and, finally, with the first shortening 
 of the days of her all too brief and lovely summer 
 of the soul, we have in 1876 Camera Obscura, a 
 book perhaps not ill-named, and of the poems in it 
 I have selected eight. Beside these, a few more 
 scattered verses have been collected — some from a 
 children's book called Home Thoughts and Home 
 Scenes, which was a joint production with Miss 
 Ingelow, Miss Edwards, and other writers, and 
 some from the fugitive literature of her time. 
 
 There they are, sixty-six pieces in all, not in the 
 first rank of poetry, and yet not to be permitted to 
 sink out of sight and die. They are full of thought, 
 and are, as it seems to me, more useful to our age 
 than to that in which they were written. They 
 have keen spiritual insight, and they are absolutely 
 sincere ; and these are great virtues. 
 
 The illustrations are her own choice, and are 
 taken from Carmina Crucis. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Inteodtjction . 
 
 xi 
 
 I. Poems published in 1861— 
 
 
 The Soul's Parting . 
 
 5 
 
 A Comparison 
 
 1 
 
 Tlie Eternal Now . 
 
 9 
 
 Consolation .... 
 
 11 
 
 Pencil-Marks in a Book of Devotion 
 
 17 
 
 Faint, yet Pursuing 
 
 19 
 
 A Vision of Green Leaves 
 
 20 
 
 To a young Girl 
 
 23 
 
 The Soul's Wooers . 
 
 25 
 
 Silence .... 
 
 26 
 
 Meeting 
 
 28 
 
 Parting .... 
 
 30 
 
 Winter. (Written Dec. 19, 1864) 
 
 31 
 
 A Song of Farewell— Death 
 
 36 
 
 Rest ..... 
 
 39 
 
 Old Letters. (Extract) . 
 
 41 
 
 In Sadness .... 
 
 42 
 
 To (Extract). 
 
 44 
 
 Pax in Novissimo . 
 
 45 
 
viii Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Shepherd's Sabbath Song. (Trans- 
 lated from the German of Uhland) . 52 
 
 . Poems publishbd in 1867— 
 
 
 Home . . . . • 
 
 55 
 
 Imitated from the Troubadour Sordel . 
 
 56 
 
 The Singer. (From a Provencal Poem of 
 
 
 the Ninth Century) . 
 
 58 
 
 To Lucy A. Constable 
 
 60 
 
 If it be pleasant to remember Thee 
 
 61 
 
 Song— Kiss me before I sleep 
 
 63 
 
 Amid change, unchanging 
 
 64 
 
 The Bridge. Noon 
 
 66 
 
 The Summons .... 
 
 67 
 
 Scherzo. A shy Person's wishes . 
 
 68 
 
 To a remembered Stream, and a never 
 
 
 forgotten Friend 
 
 70 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning in 1851 
 
 71 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning in 1861 
 
 72 
 
 The Reconciler. (Extracts) 
 
 73 
 
 The Cleft . 
 
 78 
 
 The Saturday Review 
 
 82 
 
 A Dialogue 
 
 87 
 
 A Christmas Carol . 
 
 92 
 
 Go and Come .... 
 
 95 
 
 A Song which none but the Redeemed 
 
 
 can sing .... 
 
 100 
 
Contents 
 
 ix 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 III. The Soul's Legend— 
 
 
 A Mystery .... 
 
 . 105 
 
 Desolate, yet not Forsaken 
 
 . 113 
 
 Christus et Ecclesia 
 
 . 121 
 
 IV. Camera Obscuea — 
 
 
 Dedication .... 
 
 . 133 
 
 Demeter and Cora . 
 
 . 135 
 
 The Little Companions 
 
 . 139 
 
 The Homeward Lane 
 
 . 144 
 
 The Playmates 
 
 . 147 
 
 The Almond Bough 
 
 149 
 
 Lilies .... 
 
 . 152 
 
 The Man with the Three Friends 
 
 154 
 
 V. Scattered Poems— 
 
 
 The Edelweiss 
 
 159 
 
 Hay-making 
 
 160 
 
 Going to Bed 
 
 161 
 
 Noah's Ark .... 
 
 162 
 
 The Castle Garden . 
 
 164 
 
 The Gang-children . 
 
 167 
 
 To the Memory of David Livingstone . 
 
 172 
 
 Good-night, Good-bye 
 
 173 
 
 VI. Songs of Salvation— 
 
 
 Introduction 
 
 179 
 
 A Sinner and his Saviour . 
 
 189 
 
Contents 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Eederaption 
 
 . 192 
 
 Repentance . 
 
 . 195 
 
 Conversion . 
 
 199 
 
 The Wife's Answer . 
 
 . .203 
 
 A Good Confession 
 
 . 208 
 
 An Invitation 
 
 . 213 
 
 Everlasting Love . 
 
 . 216 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 TT is assuredly by her prose works and not 
 -*- by her poems that Dora GreenweU will 
 live ; and it was by a strange mistake that 
 during her life-time both her own attention and 
 that of her friends was concentrated chiefly on 
 her verse. Her prose holds a place unique ; 
 each book as a whole may lack order and 
 coherence, and yet the texture of which it is 
 woven throughout is most rare. She speaks 
 on subjects seldom spoken of, and shows her- 
 self at home on high and dangerous places, and 
 yet her heart is ever with the pure and the 
 simple and the home-like. Her prose style has 
 in it a distinction that is difficult to analyse, 
 poetic and yet austere, with a charm all its own. 
 Her verses on the other hand are often careless. 
 We may catch the same thoughts, and yet the 
 difference of their dress makes them appear to 
 
xii Introduction 
 
 be of less rank and dignity than is their right. 
 But while we turn page after page, not know- 
 ing where to settle in the thicket of words, we 
 are overlooking some hidden flowers, and these 
 it is my present endeavour to bring to light. 
 The garden truly has run to waste, but here 
 and there is a beautiful passion-flower or a 
 handful of lilies that must not be allowed to 
 fade and die unrecognised. Moreover, all her 
 verses, bad and good, represent phases of an 
 inner life that is worth recording. 
 
 While outwardly her life was uneventful, it 
 was within full of experiences of a vivid and 
 lofty character, and of these a collection of her 
 poems forms a fairly complete account. If we 
 would paint a picture we cannot omit the 
 shadows, and not only are the conquests here 
 recorded, but some also of those struggles that 
 went near to end in defeat. Perhaps the most 
 marked examples are to be found in Carmina 
 Cruds, but there are others of the same kind 
 here. Hers was no easy path of sunshine and 
 security, but a toilsome climb pursued against 
 the whispers of doubt and the allurements of a 
 too-ready sympathy with the weakness and the 
 indolence of the human heart. " The poet is a 
 
Introduction xiii 
 
 man who sympathises with men," she writes in 
 Liber Humanitatis, " and the theologian is a 
 man who sympathises with God. Each keenly 
 feels a want of harmony and perfection in the 
 present order of created things and beings. 
 But while the poet's ardent and irritable feel- 
 ings are wrung and tortured by the view of 
 outward discord, the Christian's submissive 
 heart is oppressed by the deep alienation caused 
 by inward sin. In other words the poet is 
 inclined to cast blame on God, and the Christian 
 to take it upon himself." Here she stood with 
 a hand given to each. She was a poet in 
 every fibre of her being, and even though want 
 of training made defective the actual verses 
 she wrote, she was always responsive to " feel- 
 ing with its sweet enharmonic note, keen and 
 vibrant even to pain, strung beyond its highest 
 pitch of rapture, lowered beyond its lowest 
 depth of woe." And as surely it may be 
 granted that she was a theologian, one of the 
 few woman-theologians the world has seen. 
 The lofty tone of her prose works and the dis- 
 tinction of her style show that the combination 
 of these two characters may be a happy one for 
 the literary result produced, but her life shows 
 
xiv Introduction 
 
 that it is not happy for the heart that harbours 
 
 such conflicting sympathies, for it is torn by 
 
 sorrows that can only be humbly followed at a 
 
 distance by minds less nobly equipped. The 
 
 courage of ignorance may bring high results by 
 
 its very limitations, but in the eyes of those who 
 
 see over a wider range, the triumphs won 
 
 against the fearful odds of knowledge are by 
 
 far the more glorious. 
 
 There is a quotation that occurs several times 
 
 in her books, — 
 
 "The spirit of man wins heights that it is not 
 competent to keep," 
 
 and this is a concise wording of her strong con- 
 viction that the soul usually goes forward in 
 the spiritual life with no even assured pace, but 
 by leaps and bounds. The wonder and in- 
 spiration of a moment of true insight is granted 
 from above, and is like the clear leap of the 
 eye's vision over mountain river and morass, 
 away into infinity. The manacles and fetters 
 drop off, and time, space, change, and death are 
 as nothing. But to see is not to possess, and 
 the soul must come down, and by tasked 
 obedience and patient stooping toil must struggle 
 to fill in the missing steps with a solid pathway 
 
Introduction xv 
 
 that will bear the weight of life. Before this 
 verification of the vision is anything like accom- 
 plished, the trumpet-call comes, and the soul 
 again bounds forward and further than before, 
 and stands for one half-hour ringed with heaven, 
 and with the world only visible through the 
 cloud-rifts beneath her feet ; and then once 
 more the light fades, the vision is withdrawn, 
 and she must go down again to the unfinished 
 pathway, and handle the rough stones and 
 heavy blocks of actual life, doubtful if ever by 
 this slow and weary work she will attain to the 
 golden heights of freedom that were promised. 
 After this fashion was her own mental and 
 spiritual progress pursued, and it leaves its 
 impress on her verse, as well as on portions of 
 her marvellous prose work. Her home is, as it 
 were, in two places; partly on the heights 
 above, free and disencumbered of the body, and 
 partly beset with the toils and the thousand 
 difficulties of the vale below. Unusually beset, 
 for she had depressing ill-health, and the dead 
 weight of it bore her down often for long to- 
 gether. Possibly this is not the ideal method 
 of progress in the spiritual life, as certainly it 
 was a perplexing one for her friends, who never 
 
xvi Introduction 
 
 had any security as to where they should find 
 her. But this was never true in the sphere 
 of her affection ; there she was always loyal, 
 steady, and overflowing with a kind of radiant 
 generosity that is rare to meet with. Other- 
 wise, in thought, she was not secure for long 
 together, but "herb ist des Lebens innerster 
 Kern," and we must each be allowed to take 
 our own way with it, and this way was hers. 
 
 The alternations are, as we have seen, especi- 
 ally marked in Carmina Cruds, but we find 
 them here again before us. The land of Beulah 
 in which we walked in the splendid triumph of 
 Veni, Veni, Emanuel is now a matter of faith 
 and not of sight, for the mists of the lower 
 ground begin to close over us as we follow her 
 footsteps, and the hills are at times obscured. 
 The early poems seem to be more carefully 
 written than some of the later, and The Eternal 
 Now and Pencil-Marks in a Book of Devotion 
 are good both in thought and in expression. 
 Again in such poems as Faint, yet Pursuing and 
 The Soul's Parting she is back on the mount 
 of Vision, and the words that come to us from 
 thence are encouraging, a treasure to be kept 
 in heart and memory against the evil day. Of 
 
Introduction xvii 
 
 all her poems her own favourite is said to have 
 been Pax in Novissimo, a thing hauntingly 
 beautiful, a sketch laid in with what artists 
 call "a reserve of the palette," suggesting an 
 atmosphere of silence and peace by its subdued 
 colouring. It is the reverie of one who is 
 called to "sleep at noon," and who sits on a 
 moss-cushioned stone reviewing the past with- 
 out haste and without regret. It is full of 
 gentleness like the freshness and quiet of mid- 
 summer morning in a forest. The events of 
 life, whether harsh or kindly, come crowding 
 back to the memory asking, " Friends, friends ? 
 do we part as friends ? " and the soul sends 
 back a satisfied answer in the echo of a single 
 word, " Friends." The relation to Nature has 
 been in its way perfect from childhood on, but 
 yet from her the soul parts in quiet sorrow that 
 it has loved so ineffectively and known so little 
 of this beautiful Nurse and patient Teacher of 
 our long infancy on earth. The relation to God 
 has not been perfect at all, for there have been 
 many rebellious tears over hard lessons, and 
 Christ the Brother has often in days past had 
 to question with severe speech and to delay 
 His welcome, that He may bring the slack con- 
 
 B 
 
Scviii Introduction 
 
 science and the idle heart up to the line of duty. 
 But checks and shadows are over now, and 
 because the goal is well-nigh won Heavenly 
 Love need no longer refrain itself, but may 
 spread out its arms in unclouded welcome home. 
 And so it ends with the picture of a child sent 
 up to sleep at noon, — 
 
 " All household noises cease, 
 No voices call me from without ; the room 
 Is hushed and darkened round me ; through the 
 
 gloom 
 One friend beloved keeps moving to and fro 
 With step so quiet, oft I only know 
 
 Her presence by her gentle breathing, — Peace." 
 
 In this poem we have also, I think, the first 
 intimation of that high value set on the message 
 given by Nature that is seen so markedly in 
 later verses such as The Homeward Lane and 
 Tlie Almond Bough, verses that are rendered 
 obscure by a cloud of intangible feeling. One 
 may weary a little of this, and the quaint 
 ruggedly-told story of The Man with the Three 
 Friends is very refreshing as it rises again into 
 the region of the definite and the clear. 
 
 The Soul's Legend deserves especial study, 
 for in it we find both the Philosopher and the 
 Poet triumphing over the Saint, and she is 
 
Introduction xix 
 
 down again in the depths, walking step by step 
 with pain as she sings a song "ancient and 
 pitiful." The three prose-poems that form the 
 bulk of this strange little book are all given 
 here, because, though they follow in outline 
 something of the same story, they reveal an 
 attitude not given so clearly elsewhere. In 
 each case there is a tale of subtle charm and 
 drowsy half-savage imagery, and beneath it there 
 is a rebellious spirit awake and active, a spirit 
 that we feel is, like a sleeping lion, always 
 there in the mind of the writer, save in the 
 moments of highest insight. So profound is 
 her love of human nature even as it is, so deep 
 is her well of compassion for its weakness and 
 of tears for its woes, so strong is her sympathy 
 with all the immeasurable ills to which flesh is 
 heir, and the assaults to which the soul is sub- 
 ject through the body as well as through the 
 reason or the affections, that it seems at times 
 as if her pity burst all restraints and sprang 
 upward in a wild lament of antagonism against 
 the conditions of our life on earth both outer 
 and inner. In such a mood faith and duty are 
 both of them hard and grievous, and to follow 
 Christ needs an almost impossible restraint and 
 
XX Introduction 
 
 denial of the natural instincts. Why is He so 
 cold and irresponsive to three-fourths of the 
 desires of that human nature He came to save ? 
 Why is earth so attractive, and heaven so dim 
 and far? Why be tied down to the snow- 
 white of Christian ethics, when glorious, full, 
 passionate, rainbow-coloured life calls to us 
 through beauty and adventure ? Over and over 
 again she turns the same thoughts though they 
 are often but dimly expressed, or even told by 
 omissions rather than by direct words. Now 
 and then the rebellion rises to the surface, as in 
 Desolate, yet not Forsaken, where we have the 
 woman stolen as a child by a savage tribe, and 
 only late in life sent for home by the messenger 
 of peace. She listens indeed to his tale, but 
 there is a world of meaning in her scornfiil 
 reply,— 
 
 "And if I were indeed, as thou sayest, the 
 daughter of a chief so mighty, how came I as an 
 infant to be abandoned by all ? 
 
 " If I were lost, it w^ere strange that I were so long 
 unsought for ; and if I were forsaken by my father, 
 then it is I who have to forgive." 
 
 Again in Christus et Ecclesia the heart of the 
 writer seems to be overcharged with pity for 
 the Church who was affianced to be the bride of 
 
Introduction xxi 
 
 the Man Divine before the worlds were 
 made, — 
 
 " For her truly He died once, but how often hath 
 she died for Him ? " 
 
 And again, like a whisper from the tempter, 
 comes the suggestion, — 
 
 "If hers was the glory of the union, had she 
 indeed all the gain ? 
 
 " Is it well with the rough frieze frayed and fretted 
 with the costly inwrought thread of gold ? 
 
 "With the frail jar of porcelain in which an 
 acorn lies buried ; with the soul that travails with a 
 mighty incessant birth ? 
 
 " Is it well with the life that is dear unto one that 
 is distant, and hated by the many that are near 1 " 
 
 These are strong words, and they find an 
 answering echo in almost every heart. The 
 miserable and the desolate may not understand 
 them, but the young and strong and energetic 
 know the inner debate well, though it may 
 never reach the surface in words. Those who 
 would walk with God find their nature on the one 
 hand too varied and full, and on the other hand 
 too poor and too slightly endowed for so high 
 an alliance, and there are many falls and many 
 sorrows in the eflFort. There is in us an element 
 of simple infirmity that seems to demand com- 
 
xxii Introduction 
 
 passion rather than mere blame. It is inwrought 
 into our being just as physical weariness may be. 
 The impossibility of sustained spiritual aspira- 
 tion and the violent reactions that accompany 
 it, the revenge taken by those portions of our 
 nature that for awhile have been starved or 
 suppressed, the triumph of the body over the 
 soul in illness, the decline from divine to human 
 love, the delight in exercising power over others, 
 the desire for expansion for every part of our 
 being, the wild longing after experiment and 
 adventure rather than movement along a safe 
 and trodden path, — such are some of those 
 defects and capacities latent within us that so 
 often cripple and spoil the growth of the life of 
 God in the soul of man. If sin consists in 
 " knowing the better and choosing the worse," 
 then these lapses scarcely come under that 
 heading. And yet sin is subtly entwined with 
 them all, for we are not clear from spiritual 
 indolence, foolish indulgences, thoughts that 
 roam toward self-exaltation, and the sale of our 
 birthright time and again for one morsel of 
 meat. Were the element of sin taken out of it, 
 the way would be cleared, and He who made 
 our frame, mental and emotional as well as 
 
Introduction xxiii 
 
 physical, knows what it can bear and what 
 it cannot. All this our author knew, and she 
 knew it by the bitter method of default as well 
 as by the glorious presage of satisfaction. 
 
 Perhaps I may seem to be reading too much 
 thought into these simple poems, but were her 
 prose works, her private letters, both published 
 and unpublished, and the reminiscences of 
 her younger friends who are still living, laid be- 
 fore the reader, he could not but assent. These 
 particular poems are, as it were, but buds and 
 shoots from a root deep hidden in her mind, 
 permanently there, and which found but partial 
 and fragmentary expression. 
 
 All three of the stories we are now consider- 
 ing end with the human element finding peace 
 and recognition in the divine, and yet there is 
 some lack of that repentant humility, that 
 complete abnegation of self, that is the note of 
 redemption. It may be only in the manner of 
 the telling, and yet it strikes a strange note on 
 the heart which has known the touch of Christ. 
 It is as if the tales were told by a sympathetic 
 observer, but not by the bride herself, not by 
 one who sees beneath the surface and remembers 
 the noble and faithful wooing on the one hand. 
 
xxiv Introduction 
 
 and the self-will and coldness on the other, which 
 has for so long checked and baffled the advances 
 of Heaven. Only those within the circle can 
 know the secret of the Lord, and all others 
 misjudge and defame, and there is something 
 almost terrible in seeing one who knows so 
 much step even for a moment outside the line, 
 and place herself beside the critic rather than 
 the lover. For the sake of Humanity as a 
 whole it has to be done, for the dangers of 
 every situation are better faced than ignored, 
 and yet the individual suffers. This attitude 
 rises to a height that almost transcends its own 
 intention in a short poem called The Playmates. 
 Twin brothers are there represented, the Real 
 Self, and the Natural Man, and they are friends 
 in a rough and ready fashion until word comes 
 from the King supreme, that one or other of 
 the two must die. The Natural Self dies, and 
 the Real Self, though now he is admitted to 
 drink of the new wine of the Kingdom of 
 Heaven, spends hours of musing on the sweet, 
 wild, unhampered companionship which he has 
 lost, and thinks it is possible that the present 
 joys have been too dearly purchased. Is, then, 
 the voice of the whole Church militant to be 
 
Introduction xxv 
 
 stultified, when it speaks in tones of magnificent 
 satisfaction of laying down the lower life to 
 gain the higher? The solemn words, "I am 
 crucified with Christ," have rung down the 
 centuries, and have been repeated in tones both 
 meditative and exultant, and the suggestion of 
 "Pity thyself" has been left to the enemy. 
 Our writer knows this well, and knows, too, the 
 way of escape, as her unflinching adherence to 
 the Cross testifies. It is, as it were, a dramatic 
 and one-sided, rather than a real and final 
 expression. Every man should be allowed to 
 plead his own cause; and with transparent 
 sincerity she speaks for the artist and the poet 
 who were often stirring within her. Her soul 
 is utterly free from cant, and the good and the 
 bad are shown with equal clearness ; you have 
 the whole, there is nothing slurred over, nothing 
 hollow or empty, no spaces to be accounted for 
 which may be store-rooms belonging to the 
 enemy. You have the whole, and there is 
 nothing worse that is left unsaid. The ideal 
 faith is not, as many people tell us, that of the 
 child or the peasant, — a faith that is necessarily 
 founded in part on ignorance ; but a faith of a 
 yet higher quality is found in the mind that 
 
xxvi Introduction 
 
 knows and yet persists in its hold, rare though 
 it may be. Dora Greenwell knew. She did 
 not shun the books of her time, and a very 
 difficult time it was for the creed of such an 
 analytical spirit as hers. She read Colenso, 
 John Stuart Mill, and Essays and Reviews, and 
 she studied Augusta Comte and Positivism. 
 Her faith was no inherited or easy thing ; 
 though evidently won in early youth, and doubt- 
 less won in all simplicity, it was subsequently 
 maintained inch by inch at the bayonet's point 
 as each new threatening opposition entered her 
 mind, and the victory is full of hope and cheer 
 for those who come after. It was a victoiy 
 gained by no fictions, but by a soul which 
 forced its way through detaining suggestions 
 and overwhelming sympathy, straight to the 
 Saviour. She saw things in their true pro- 
 portions, and nothing could keep her from flying 
 straight to the centre of life. Verses such as 
 Go and Come are full of heavenly confidence, 
 and The Song that none hut the Redeemed can 
 sing shows us the world-wearied and battered 
 warriors at last in sight of that Home where 
 the strain of faith is relaxed in vision. " Lo, 
 this is our God, we have waited for Him." 
 
Introduction xxvii 
 
 Full contentment dawns in glowing streaks 
 
 after the long and stormy night, and then the 
 
 glorious Sun arises with heahng on His wings. 
 
 " With banners faded from their early pride, 
 Through mist and sun and showers of bleaching 
 
 rain, 
 Yet red in all our garments doubly dyed 
 With many a wound upon us, many a stain, 
 We came with steps that faltered, Yet we came ! " 
 
 Although usually wanderii\g in these high 
 regions, our writer does not live apart from the 
 stirring interests of her time. The war between 
 North and South threatens in America, and 
 she sends her greeting to the free North in The 
 Cleft, a fine song, and one that makes for 
 righteousness rather than for peace, with an 
 energy that is almost savage in its recklessness 
 of consequences. She had truly learnt the 
 world's first lesson, that there are principles of 
 supreme worth, and causes on which human 
 life is well thrown away. Again she went by 
 sympathy into the horrors of the Cotton-famine, 
 and this has left its impress on The Dialogue, 
 among the pieces here given. Again, there 
 were at this time certain miserable children, 
 whose condition struck from her soul sparks of 
 red-hot indignation. They were called the 
 
xxviii Introduction 
 
 Gang-Children, and a Member of Parliament 
 had advocated the system of employing them 
 in agricultural labour to the detriment of both 
 soul and body. The verses she wrote in reply 
 are the voice of a true woman lifted up against 
 the invasion of her citadel — home. In the world 
 of literary and social criticism The Saturday 
 Review at this time held its court of judgment 
 and affected to be supreme, and she hated its 
 cold sneers at all that was altruistic and kind, 
 and at all effort on behalf of the simple and the 
 small. Till one reads her trenchant lines in a 
 satire called by the name of the magazine, one 
 would hardly believe her gifted with so much 
 fighting force. It is very clever. That she 
 was independent we know, but we did not 
 know before that she could be sarcastic, or that 
 she was so familiar with the popular interests 
 of her day as to know the names of two famous 
 pugilists. 
 
 But there were lighter and happier moments 
 in her life. The sense of humour is so strong 
 in her letters that each faded leaf as it is un- 
 folded causes one's heart to leap in expectation 
 lest, like a child playing hide-and-seek, her 
 radiant spirit should suddenly spring out from 
 
Introduction xxix 
 
 behind the words and meet one face to face; 
 but this has scarcely left a trace on her verses. 
 Yet she dearly loved children, and could write 
 well about Oomg to Bed and Noah's Ark, and 
 picture the little child leading the long proces- 
 sion of animals on the safe warm dining-room 
 carpet, till we might think we were in the 
 enchanted childhood of Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 The prose-poem The Little Companions gives 
 another side of the young life, for the silent 
 ache of desolation of the child wandering alone 
 amid the wealth of an autumn garden in all its 
 splendour of colour and sunshine, of flower and 
 fruit, is, I think, a sketch that few could have 
 drawn with so masterly a hand. Above all 
 things she loved her friends, and poured upon 
 them a wealth of generous appreciation and 
 affectionate praise that is embodied in many 
 Valentines and other verses. The lines Oh, 
 hast thou won my heart ? are addressed to Mrs 
 Thomas Constable, and are among the best of 
 them. A strain of carelessness runs through a 
 great deal of her verse, an imperfection in the 
 handling that prevents her thought from finding 
 its true body of expression, but by careful 
 search we shall discover treasures. One little 
 
XXX 
 
 Introduction 
 
 poem of two verses at any rate is good through- 
 out, a very triumph of simplicity, and of that 
 suggestive charm that ever leaves the greater 
 part unsaid, and that is entitled Home. This 
 author has added something to the ever-increas- 
 ing and splendid heritage of the English race, 
 and we must not lose her. She is our friend, 
 and we will bid her welcome. 
 
eelecteD poem0 
 
 " as Sue iournegen iSaSlg tSrougJ a place 
 SCiigcnxt ana mean, toe ligJteD on tje trace 
 2Df 'iitJB fregS footjirtntg, anH a toStgper cleat 
 jFell on our spirits. tSLJou 'iSLiJBSelf toert near ; 
 ann from %i)2 sertantg' Jearts tSLJg name atiorcli 
 
 . Brafce fortl) in fire ; toe saiB, ' St is tje Horn,'" 
 
I 
 Poems published in 1861 
 

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 H 
 
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 ^^0^^ 
 
 K'iSI 
 
 SSK'^^s 
 
 glpr^^ 
 
 ^a 
 
 
 l^ffi 
 
 
 ^fSi^S^ 
 
 )■« yj J^ali 
 
 981 
 
 
 ISk 
 
 iCg^S^g 
 
 ^jgl^gJlE 
 
 SiMWi 
 
 THE SOUL'S PARTING 
 
 HE sat within Life's Banquet Hall at noon, 
 '^ When word was brought unto her secretly : 
 " The Master cometh onwards quickly ; soon 
 Across the Threshold He will call for thee." 
 Then she rose up to meet Him at the Door, 
 But turning, courteous, made a farewell brief 
 To those that sat around. From Care and Grief 
 She parted first : " Companions sworn and true 
 Have ye been ever to me, but for Friends 
 
 1 knew ye not till later, and did miss 
 
 Much solace through that error ; let this kiss, 
 Late known and prized, be taken for amends. 
 Thou, too, kind, constant Patience, with thy slow, 
 Sweet counsels aiding me, I did not know 
 That ye were angels, until ye displayed 
 Your wings for flight ; now bless me ! " but 
 
 they said, 
 " We blest thee long ago.'' 
 Then turning unto twain 
 
6 The Soul's Parting 
 
 That stood together, tenderly and oft 
 
 She kissed them on their foreheads, whispering 
 
 soft : 
 " Now must we part ; yet leave me not before 
 Ye see me enter safe within the Door ; 
 Kind bosom-comforters, that by my side 
 The darkest hour found ever closest bide, 
 A dark hour waits me, ere for evermore 
 Night with its heaviness be overpast ; 
 Stay with me till I cross the Threshold o'er." 
 So Faith and Hope stayed by her till the last. 
 
 But giving both her hands 
 To one that stood the nearest : " Thou and I 
 May pass together ; for the holy bands 
 God knits on earth are never loosed on high. 
 Long have I walked with Thee ; thy lame arose 
 E'en in my sleep, and sweeter than the close 
 Of music was thy voice ; for thou wert sent 
 To lead me homewards from my banishment 
 By devious ways, and never hath my heart 
 Swerved from Thee, though our hands were 
 
 wrung apart 
 By spirits sworn to sever us ; above 
 Soon shall I look upon Thee as Thou art." 
 So she cross'd o'er with Love. 
 
A Comparison 
 
 A COMPARISON 
 
 nnHERE is no Winter in the soul of Man ; 
 -*- Its clime is Tropical, a giant tree 
 In stately Southern forests blowing free 
 And broad, it stands where equal Summer 
 
 sways 
 All seasons, and as one swift joy decays, 
 Another pushes forth a fan-like frond 
 Or succulent leaf dark-shining far beyond 
 Before it falls ; and wing-like thoughts have 
 
 sown 
 Their seeds all round about its roots, and thrown 
 A veil of living blooms from bough to bough. 
 Leaf, flower, and tendril twining, so»that now 
 Most vain it were to track each home, or guess 
 Whence springs this weight and wealth of love- 
 liness ; 
 While e'en its cloven bark, a sheath and shroud 
 Of splendour, blossoms o'er,— so fancies crowd 
 Within the soul, so mounting swift and high 
 Up to that tree's tall summit, suddenly 
 
8 
 
 A Comparison 
 
 Spring in one night efflorescent, bright hopes, 
 That drop again to earth like flowery ropes 
 Let down from Heaven by angels' hands ; yet 
 
 there 
 Stand forth, 'mid all that fulness, gaunt and 
 
 bare 
 Like matted cordage, withered coils that fruit. 
 Or flower, or leaf, bear never, for the root 
 From whence they drew earth's kindly juice is 
 
 gone ; 
 And these are hopes that die, yet still cling on ! 
 
The Eternal Now 
 
 THE ETERNAL NOW 
 
 " For one day with thee is as a thousand years, and 
 a thousand years as one day." 
 
 " IVr^^ hsLve I won a marvel and a Truth ; " 
 -^* So spake the soul and trembled, " dread 
 and ruth 
 Together mixed, a sweet and bitter core 
 Closed in one rind ; for I did sin of yore, 
 But this (so said I oft) was long ago ; 
 So put it from me far away, but, lo ! 
 With Thee is neither After nor Before, 
 Lord, and clear within the noon-light set 
 Of one illimitable Present, yet 
 Thou lookest on my fault as it were now. 
 So will I mourn and humble me ; yet Thou 
 Art not as man that oft forgives a wrong 
 •Because he half forgets it. Time being strong 
 To wear the crimson of guilt's stain away ; 
 For Thou, forgiving, dost so in the Day 
 That shows it clearest, in the boundless Sea 
 Of Mercy and Atonement, utterly 
 
10 The Eternal Now 
 
 Castiug our pardoned trespasses behind, 
 No more remembered, or to come in mind ; 
 Set wide from us as East from West away : 
 So now this bitter turns to solace kind ; 
 And I will comfort me that once of old 
 A deadly sorrow struck me, and its cold 
 Runs through me still ; but this was long ago. 
 My grief is dull through age, and friends out- 
 worn, 
 And wearied comforters have long forborne 
 To sit and weep beside me : Lord, yet Thou 
 Dost look upon my pang as it were now ! " 
 
Consolation ii 
 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 " They have healed also the hurt of the daughter 
 of my people slightly, saying, Peace, peace ; when 
 there is no peace. ... Is there no balm in Gilead ? 
 is there no physician there V — Jee. viii. 11, 22. 
 
 "VT'EA ! trouble springs not from the ground, 
 J- yet must it ever be, 
 Man knows that he is born to care, so seeks 
 
 his remedy ; 
 And he hath found out store of charms and 
 
 spells to give it rest, 
 Yet grief turns from human comforters, the 
 
 Highest is the best ! 
 
 One saith, " Be comforted, for grief is idle and 
 
 is vain, 
 It never hath brought back the smile to Joy's 
 
 dead face again. 
 It only fixes there the look it wore when Hope 
 
 took leave ; 
 Yes, grief is vain, I know it well, and therefore 
 
 will I grieve." 
 
12 Consolation 
 
 One saith, " Be comforted, for thus how many 
 
 say with dawn, 
 ' Would God that it were eve ! ' at eve, ' Would 
 
 God that it were morn ! ' " 
 But then more noble in its woe spake out the 
 
 grieving heart, 
 " Nay ! rather would I all were blest and bear 
 
 alone my smart." 
 
 " And yet," saith one, " be comforted, for griev- 
 ing is a sin, 
 
 Thy tears may stain Heaven's goodly floors yet 
 there be trodden in ; 
 
 This is a grief that Heaven hath sent, a grief 
 that thou must bear," — 
 
 And Patience smiled so cold, so cold, I took 
 her for Despair ! 
 
 Yet these were simple reasoners ; I said, " I 
 
 will arise, 
 I will seek out counsel from,the sage and wisdom 
 
 from the wise ; 
 They shall show me of their merchandise who 
 
 trade for hidden things. 
 Who go down to the heart's great deep to track 
 
 its secret springs. 
 
Consolation 13 
 
 Then with calm brow, one answered me in 
 
 measured tones and brief, 
 That we are stronger through our pain, and 
 
 nobler for our grief, 
 And when I looked on him, I saw he spoke 
 
 what he believed. 
 And I talked no more of grief to him who ne'er 
 
 himself had grieved. 
 
 Or he had known that spoke of Will, how vain 
 
 its strong control 
 When Deep is calling unto Deep within the 
 
 wave-tost soul ; 
 Yea ! happy are they that endure ! yet never 
 
 was the tide 
 Of nature's agony stemmed back by high, o'er- 
 
 mastering Pride ; 
 
 But then with kindlier mien, one said, "Go 
 
 forth unto the fields. 
 For there, and in the woods, are balms that 
 
 nature freely yields ; 
 Let Nature take thee to her heart ! she hath a 
 
 bounteous breast 
 That yearns o'er all her sorrowing sons, and 
 
 She will give thee rest." 
 
14 Consolation 
 
 But Nature on the spirit-sick as on the spirit- 
 free 
 
 Smiled, like a fair unloving face too bright for 
 sympathy ; 
 
 Sweet, ever sweet, are whispering leaves, are 
 waters in their flow. 
 
 But never on them breathed a tone to comfort 
 human woe ! 
 
 Small solace for the deer that hath the arrow 
 
 in its side, — 
 And only seeks the woods to die, — that o'er his 
 
 dappled hide 
 Spread purple blooms of bedded heath, and 
 
 ferny branchings tall — 
 A deadly hurt must have strong cure, or it hath 
 
 none at all ; 
 
 And the old warfare from within that had gone 
 
 on so long. 
 The wasting of the inner strife, the sting of 
 
 outward wrong, 
 Went with me o'er the breezy hill, went with 
 
 me up the glade — 
 I found not God among the trees, and yet I 
 
 was afraid ! 
 
Consolation 15 
 
 I mused, and fire that smouldered long within 
 
 my breast brake free, 
 I said, " God, Thy works are good, and yet 
 
 they are not Thee ; 
 Still greater to the sense is that which breathes 
 
 through eveiy part. 
 Still sweeter to the heart than all is He who 
 
 made the heart ! 
 
 I will seek Thee, not Thine, Lord ! for (now 
 
 I mind me) still 
 Thou sendest us for soothing not to fountain, 
 
 nor to hill ; 
 Yet is there comfort in the fields if we walk iu 
 
 them with Thee, 
 Who saidest, "Come, ye burdened ones, ye 
 
 weary, unto Mb." 
 
 Yet is there comfort, not in Pride that spends 
 
 its strength in vain. 
 But in casting all our care on Thee — on Thee 
 
 who wilt sustain ; 
 Not in dull Patience, saying, "This I bear, for 
 
 it must be," 
 But in knowing that howe'er Grief comes, it 
 
 comes to us from Thee ! 
 
i6 
 
 Consolation 
 
 Thou, Lord ! who teachest how to pray, teach 
 
 us how to grieve ! 
 For Thou hast learned the task we find so hard, 
 
 yet may not leave ; 
 For Thou hast grown acquaint with Grief — 
 
 Thou knowest what we feel, 
 Thou smitest and Thou bindest up, we look to 
 
 Thee to heal ! 
 
Pencil-Marks 17 
 
 PENCIL-MARKS IN A BOOK OF 
 DEVOTION 
 
 " It happened one day, about noon, I was exceed- 
 ingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot 
 on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the 
 sand." 
 
 STRONG words are these, " Lord ! I seek 
 but Thee 
 Not Thine ! I ask not comfort, ask not rest ; 
 Give what, and how, and wlien thou wilt to me, 
 I bless Thee — take all back— and be Thou 
 blest." 
 
 Sweet words are these, " Lord ! it is Thy love 
 And not thy gifts I seek ; yet am as one 
 
 That loveth so I prize the least above 
 All other worth or sweetness under sun." 
 
 And all these lines are underscored, and here 
 And there a tear hath been and left its stain, 
 
 The only record, haply, of a tear 
 
 Long wiped from eyes no more to weep again ; 
 
i8 Pencil-Marks 
 
 And as I gaze, a solemn joy comes o'er me — 
 By these deep footprints I can surely guess 
 
 Some pilgrim by the road that lies before me 
 Hath crossed, long time ago, the wilderness. 
 
 With feet oft bruised among its sharp flints, duly 
 He turned aside to gather simples here. 
 
 And lay up cordials for his faintness — truly 
 Now will I track his steps and be of cheer. 
 
 And wearied, by this wayside fountain's brink 
 He sat to rest, and as it then befell. 
 
 The stone was rolled away, he stooped to drink 
 The waters springing up from life's clear well. 
 
 And oft upon his journey faring sadly 
 
 He communed with this Teacher from on high. 
 
 And meeting words of promise, meekly, gladly, 
 Went on his way rejoicing — so will I ! 
 
 «-ssP" 
 
Faint, yet Pursuing 19 
 
 "FAINT, YET PURSUING" 
 
 A SONG OF THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 A LL day among the corn-fields of the plain, 
 ■^-^ Reaping a mighty harvest to the Lord, 
 Our hands have bound the sheaves ; we come 
 again, — 
 
 Shout for the garners stored ! 
 
 All day among the vineyards of the field. 
 
 Our feet have trodden out the red ripe vine : 
 
 Sing ! sing for hearts that have not spared to 
 
 yield 
 
 A yet more purple wine ! 
 
 All day against the spoilers of our land, 
 
 Our arms made bare the keen and glittering 
 
 sword ; 
 None turned back, none stayed the lifted hand, — 
 Sing ! sing unto the Lord ! 
 
 All day beset by spies, begirt with foes 
 
 Building a house of holiness ; by night 
 
 We watched beside our weapons ; slow it 
 
 rose, — 
 
 Sing ! sing from Zion's height ! 
 
20 A Vision of Green Leaves 
 
 A VISION OF GREEN LEAVES 
 
 npHE time was Winter, Winter or the Spring 
 -*- That comes with tardy footstep, lingering 
 Like some reluctant Giver, yielding cold 
 The boons that it no longer may withhold ; 
 And ere I slept, I listened to the rain 
 Dashed by the fitful wind against the pane, 
 The wind, that even through my sleep did seem 
 To break upon the music of my dream, • 
 With pause of change and dreariness, and still 
 Swelled, sighed, and moaned each varying scene 
 
 to fill 
 With trouble and unrest ; at length outworn 
 I slept within my sleep, and to the Morn 
 (Still in my dream) awoke, with vacant eye 
 Forth from the casement gazing listlessly, 
 When sudden I exclaimed, "A miracle ! 
 A Summer come at once, without a Spring 
 To herald it ! a bright awakening 
 To life and loveliness," for all around 
 Were leaves, green bursting leaves, and on the 
 
 ground 
 
A Vision of Green Leaves 21 
 
 Was short grass springing thick, and through 
 
 the wave 
 The dark flag cut its swift way like a glaive ; 
 And broad as Orient growths, upon the pool, 
 Large, juicy leaves lay mantling, smooth and 
 
 cool : 
 I saw no flowers, no fruit, but everywhere 
 Leaves, only leaves, that filled the summer air 
 With murmurs, soft as whispers, that the 
 
 heart. 
 Hath longed and listened for ; while hght and 
 
 low, 
 As chidings fall from lips that turn their flow 
 To gentleness, quick rustlings waved apart 
 The boughs, and fragrance soothed the sense 
 
 like thought 
 Too sweet for utterance ; e'en then I caught 
 The Dream's full import : " 'Tis the Spring's 
 
 warm sigh," 
 Methought, " that calls forth all this luxury 
 Of leaf and greenness ; thus, upon the heart 
 A word, a look will bid a Summer start, 
 A Summer come at once, without a Spring 
 To herald it, a sudden wakening ; " 
 Then fi-om the bands of sleep my spirit broke. 
 And with the sweetness on my soul I woke, 
 
22 A Vision of Green Leaves 
 
 And it was Winter still ! but in my heart 
 Was Summer ! Summer that would not depart, 
 But breathed across its silence, low and light, 
 Like those sweet forest-rustlings of the night ; 
 It was a dream of Hope ! and sent by Her 
 My Lady bright, because I minister 
 Unto her honour, while I strive to sing 
 And praise her with my Lyre's most silver 
 
 string ; 
 It was a dream of Hope ; I know the hue 
 Of her fresh mantle, and her symbol true. 
 The leaf! she cannot give the flower or fruit, 
 But sends their promise by a herald mute ; 
 The leaf, that comes like one in haste to bring 
 The first of all some gladsome welcoming. 
 And cannot speak for joy, but with the hand 
 Still points and beckons to the coming band ; 
 I know the symbol, and I bind the sign 
 Upon my heart to make it doubly thine. 
 Thou Bringer of sweet dreams by day and night, 
 Still will I sing and praise thee, Lady bright ! 
 And I will gather of these leaves, to twine 
 A chaplet for those sunny brows of thine ; 
 And by thy smiling thou wilt keep its sheen. 
 In Winter as in Summer fresh and green ! 
 
To a Young Girl , 23 
 
 TO A YOUNG GIRL 
 
 mWELVE years before thee through life I 
 -*- must run, 
 Dearest! oh, would I might counsel the 
 hours, 
 Saying, " Keep back your best sunshine for one 
 That is coming behind me, and spare her the 
 showers ! " 
 
 Fain would I stop to remove from thy way 
 Stones that have bruised me, and thorns that 
 have grieved ; 
 
 Set up my errors for waymarks, to say — 
 Here I was wounded, ensnared, or deceived ! 
 
 Vain is my wishing ! in lines of our own 
 
 We must traverse the pathway marked out 
 from above ; 
 Life is a sorrowful teacher, alone 
 
 We must learn its deep lessons — unaided by 
 Love. 
 
24 To a Young Girl 
 
 Yet where I journey waste places among, 
 I will scatter a seed by the wayside, and say, 
 
 Soft to myself as I hasten along — 
 
 " It may be a flower when she cometh this 
 way ; " 
 
 Yet will I leave thee some token, that there. 
 Just where the path looks most rugged and 
 dim, 
 It haply may cheer thee in meeting with Care, 
 To know that thy friend walked before thee 
 with Him ! 
 
 So for thy loving and trusting and truth. 
 Gentle acquittance in part it may be ; 
 
 Thou who hast shrined me an image of Youth, 
 Brighter than ever my youth was to me ! 
 
 February \Mh. 
 
The Soul's Wooers 25 
 
 THE SOUL'S WOOERS 
 
 T IKE Captive Judah, underneath the Tree 
 -^-^ She sat alone and silent on the ground ; 
 
 While from the valley rising, came the sound 
 Of music and of dancing, gay and free, — 
 But none did bid her to that company ; 
 
 Till lifting up her heavy lids, she found 
 
 One standing by her, winged, and rosy 
 crowned 
 And robed within the purple : " Rise, for thee 
 
 (He said, and kissed her on the brow elate) 
 The Ruler of the Feast hath kept till now 
 The richest wine ; " but as she marvelled, drew 
 
 Another near, that whispered to her, " Wait ; 
 Not of this vintage shalt thou taste till thou 
 Shalt drink it with me in my Kingdom new." 
 
26 Silence 
 
 SILENCE 
 
 T TURN unto the Past 
 
 -*- When I have need of comfort ; I am vowed 
 
 To dear remembrances : most like some proud, 
 
 Poor Noble, who, on evil fortunes cast, 
 
 Has saved his pictures from the wreck, I muse 
 
 Mid these that I have gathered, till I lose 
 
 The drearness of the Present ! 
 
 On the hill 
 That noon in summer found us ; far below 
 We heard the river in a slumbrous flow 
 Chide o'er its pebbles, slow and yet more slow ; 
 Beneath our feet the very grasses slept. 
 Signed by the sliding sunbeam as it crept 
 From blade to blade, slow-stealing with a still 
 Admonitory gesture ; now a thrill 
 Ran lightly through the wood, but ere to sound 
 The shiver grew upon the hush profound. 
 It died encalmed ; methought a Spirit's sigh 
 Had then been audible, but none came by 
 To trouble us, and we were silent, fed 
 With golden musings by our friend that read 
 
Silence 27 
 
 From out thy chosen Poet ; in a hall 
 
 Of mute expectancy we stood, where all 
 
 That listened with us held their breath unstirred; 
 
 When suddenly the reader's voice let fall 
 
 Its flow of music ; sweet as was the song 
 
 He paused in, conquered by a spell more strong, 
 
 We asked him not its cadence to recall. 
 
 It seemed as if a Thought of God did fill 
 
 His World, that drawn unto the Father's breast. 
 
 Lay hush'd with all its children. This was Rest, 
 
 And this the soul's true Sabbath, deep and still. 
 
 Then marvelled I no longer that a space 
 
 Is found in Heaven for Silence ; so to me 
 
 That hour made known its true suflBciency, 
 
 Revealed not oft below, because its place 
 
 Is with the Blessed ! Speech is but a part 
 
 Of Life's deep poverty, whereof the heart 
 
 Is conscious, striving in its vague unrest 
 
 To fill its void ; but when the measure pressed 
 
 And running over to its clasp is given. 
 
 It seeketh nothing more, and Earth is blest 
 
 With Silence — even such as is in Heaven ! 
 
28 Meeting 
 
 MEETING 
 
 /^H, how elate my look, — 
 
 ^-^ Far down the thronged and lighted table 
 
 sent 
 Upon a careless quest indifferent, — 
 
 Met thine in mirthful flashing ! Then we took 
 Our leave together, and, like boys released 
 By the glad stroke of Noonday, from the feast 
 
 Went home beneath the star-light. Oh, that 
 night, 
 How shall I e'er forget it ! At a bound 
 My spirit rose, a river that had found 
 Its level on a sudden ; forth in chase 
 Quick vagrant fancies rushed as in a race, 
 
 Unemulous and glad ; while at the light 
 Of those wild torch-fires solemn thoughts and 
 
 deep 
 Enkindled clear, as on a northern sky. 
 Through Borealis gleams that flash and leap, 
 The stars look down. What was that hour to 
 
 me ! 
 What is it now ! My soul hath been more free, 
 
Meeting 29 
 
 More noble, since that meeting ; to the laws 
 Of this strange country for awhile in pause 
 Content to hold my breath ; with step more bold 
 Because my wings have grown, I walk these old 
 Accustomed pathways. 
 
 Earnest Friend, thy youth 
 Of soul makes all things fresher ; in thy truth 
 Grows all more true, more real ; come and hold 
 Thy mirror to my soul, that I may be 
 The more myself for having been with thee ! 
 
30 Parting 
 
 PARTING 
 
 TO E. L. R. 
 
 TTTE parted not like lovers in their youth, 
 ' ^ Fond pledge and promise eager to 
 renew, 
 But e'en like steadfast-hearted friends whose 
 truth, 
 Tried by world-wear, world-change, soul- 
 conflict, knew 
 Its strength and rested ; so our words were 
 few. 
 We parted with the clamour of the street 
 Around us thick, yet secret, lone, and sweet 
 Was our communing. Then I did not say 
 As oft of yore, "Dear friend, when far away. 
 Remember me," nor thou, " Forget me not." 
 What is this life that Thou shouldst be forgot 
 For all that it hath yet to give me ? Nay ! 
 In this world or the next I count to be 
 
 Rememb'ring and remembered ; we have 
 shared 
 The cloud and sunshine here, Eternity 
 
 Will never blight the flower that Time hath 
 spared ! 
 
Winter 31 
 
 WINTER 
 
 COLD, cold ! it is very cold 
 Without the house ; the year is old ! 
 His pulse is faint, and his blood runs slow, 
 He lies, like a corpse, in his shroud of snow ; 
 It was drawn round his limbs by a noiseless 
 
 sprite ; 
 He grew white with age in a single night. 
 Wrap him up close, and cover him deep ; 
 Nothing is left for him now but to sleep ! 
 Sleep away ! dream away ! take no care. 
 All day falls the snow through the darkened 
 
 air; 
 Fast, fast ! for it knows, firm packed together, 
 The clouds have laid stores in for wintry 
 
 weather ; 
 Dark, dark ! like a lazy slave, the sun 
 Leaves his short half day's work all undone ; 
 But the night is clear, and the stars shine forth. 
 And the fire-flags stream in the frosty north, 
 And the glistening earth in the moon's pale ray. 
 Looks fair with the smile of a softer day : 
 
32 Winter 
 
 Red breaks the morn, and the evening glows 
 With the sea-shell's blush on the drifted 
 
 snows, 
 Rose-tinted pearl ! while 'mid the glooms 
 The flake - feathered - trees show like giant 
 
 plumes. 
 No stir awakes in the death-like woods, 
 In those still enchanted solitudes, 
 Wreathed in all wild fantastic forms 
 Are the tomb-like halls of the King of Storms, 
 The streams are all chained, and their prisoned 
 
 waves 
 Sleep a charmed sleep within crystal caves ; 
 No stir in the waters, no sound on the air, — 
 Their inmates find shelter, they only know 
 
 where ; 
 But cold is the comfort they own at the best. 
 When the icicle hangs where the swallow found 
 
 rest. 
 And a few of Earth's wise things when summer 
 
 was gay. 
 Laid by something safe for a Winterly day ; 
 But the wisest among them have taken a 
 
 sleep. 
 Snug coiled up, and warm, while the snow lies 
 
 so deep. 
 
Winter 33 
 
 Where the keen frost may bite, yet can do them 
 
 no harm, 
 As they dream of the summer and all that is 
 
 warm : 
 No breath in the A^alley, no breeze on the 
 
 hill. 
 No stir in the farm, all is dull, all is chill ; 
 And the cattle lie huddled within the fold, — 
 Cold, cold ! it is very cold. 
 
 Warm, warm ! it is so warm 
 Within the Heart, that all is warm ! 
 
 The Heart knows a secret to keep out the 
 chill. 
 
 Let it come when it likes, and stay as it will. 
 
 For, the keener it blows, and the deeper it 
 snows, 
 
 The higher the pure flame of charity glows ! 
 
 When earth grows unkind to her children, nor 
 cares 
 
 How soon they may sink to that cold breast of 
 hers; 
 
 Though SHE know not pity, love will not with- 
 hold; 
 
 There are those who have hunger to bear with 
 the cold ; 
 
34 Winter 
 
 There are homes that are no homes ! no work 
 
 and no wage, 
 No sunshine for childhood, no comfort for age, 
 No food and no fire ; but sickness, with care 
 And poverty, dreary companions ! are there. 
 
 Oh ! sweet to sit around the board 
 That Providence hath blessed, — 
 And sweet to draw the curtain round our warm 
 
 and sheltered rest ; 
 To see the faces at whose smile the household 
 
 hearth grows bright. 
 And to feel that, mid the darkness, in our 
 
 dwellings there is light ! 
 If we have done what love might do, and wished 
 
 that it were more, 
 To keep the grim wolf yet awhile without the 
 
 poor man's door ; 
 And if our day hath not gone down, without its 
 
 kind relief 
 To some of those its sad dawn woke to misery 
 
 and grief. 
 We need not fear the frost and cold ; we have 
 
 found out a charm. 
 To keep our House, and Home, and Heart, and 
 
 all our Being warm ! 
 
Winter 35 
 
 Kind Christmas comes with all its gifts, and 
 absent friends seem near, 
 
 And the Christian hails earth's darkest day for 
 the brightest in his year ; 
 
 And there is peace, and there is joy, and there 
 are anthems sung, 
 
 As once by angels in the air, when Christmas- 
 time was young ; — 
 
 And our hearts learn the tones of that happy 
 psalm. 
 
 Warm, warm ! it is very warm ! 
 
36 A Song of Farewell 
 
 A SONG OF FAREWELL 
 
 DEATH 
 
 " Leaves and clustered fruits, and flowers eterne, 
 
 ETEEJfAL TO THE WOULD, BUT NOT TO ME." — HoOD. 
 
 rMHE Spring will come again, dear friends, 
 -*- The Swallow o'er the Sea ; 
 The bud will hang upon the bough. 
 The blossom on the tree ; 
 And many a pleasant sound will rise to greet 
 
 her on her way, 
 The voice of bird, and leaf, and stream, and 
 
 warm winds in their play ; 
 Oh ! sweet the airs that round her breathe ! and 
 
 bountiful is she. 
 She bringeth all the things that fresh, and sweet, 
 
 and hopeful be ; 
 She scatters promise on the Earth with open 
 
 hand and free, 
 But not for me, my friends. 
 But not for me ! 
 
A Song of Farewell 37 
 
 Summer will come again, dear friends, 
 
 Low murmurs of the Bee 
 
 Will rise through the long sunny day 
 
 Above the flowery lea ; 
 
 The deep and dreamy woods will own the 
 
 slumbrous spell she weaves. 
 And send a greeting, mixed with sighs, through 
 
 all their quivering leaves. 
 Oh, precious are her glowing gifts! and plenteous 
 
 is she. 
 She bringeth all the lovely things that bright 
 
 and fragrant be ; 
 She scatters fulness on the Earth with lavish 
 
 hand and free^ 
 But not for nie, my friends, 
 But not for me ! 
 
 Autumn will come again, dear friends. 
 
 His spirit-touch will be 
 
 With gold upon the harvest-field, 
 
 With crimson on the tree ; 
 
 He passeth o'er the silent woods, they wither at 
 
 his breath. 
 Slow fading in a still decay, a change that is 
 
 not Death. 
 Oh ! rich, and liberal, andwise,andprovidentishe! 
 
38 
 
 A Song of Farewell 
 
 He taketh to his Garner-house the things that 
 
 ripened be ; 
 He gathereth his store from Earth, all silently — 
 And he will gather me, my friends. 
 He will gather me ! 
 
Rest 39 
 
 REST 
 
 npiilS life hath hours that hold 
 -*- The soul above itself, as at a show 
 A child, upon a loving arm and bold 
 Uplifted safe, upon the crowd below 
 Smiles down serene, — I speak to them that 
 know 
 This thing whereof I speak, that none can guess 
 That none can paint, — what marks hath Blessed- 
 ness, 
 What characters whereby it may be told ? 
 Such hours with things that never can grow old 
 Are shrined. One eve, 'mid autumns far away, 
 I walked along beside a river ; grey 
 And pale was earth, the heavens were grey and 
 
 pale, 
 As if the dying year and dying day 
 Sobbed out their lives together, wreaths of mist 
 Stole down the hills to shroud them while they 
 
 kissed 
 Each other sadly ; yet behind this veil 
 
40 
 
 Rest 
 
 Of drearness and decay my soul did build, 
 To music of its own, a temple filled 
 With worshippers beloved that hither drew 
 In silence ; then I thirsted not to hear 
 The voice of any friend, nor wished for dear 
 Companion's hand firm clasped in mine; I knew, 
 Had such been with me, they had been less 
 near. 
 
Old Letters 
 
 41 
 
 OLD LETTERS— VI 
 
 {Extract) 
 
 QO doth life, our field 
 
 ^ Redeemed for us, but slowly, slowly yield 
 
 The treasure hid within it ! all our loss 
 
 Would grow to more, and this our Earth to 
 Heaven, 
 Might we but pierce unto the blessedness 
 That lies so near us, might we but possess 
 The things that are our own, as they were 
 given ! 
 
42 In Sadness 
 
 m SADNESS 
 
 A CHILD in sickness left behind its mates 
 ■^-^ Upon a summer holiday, from tears 
 Refrains himself a httle while, and waits 
 Perchance in hope to see some comrade kind 
 
 Come back to play with him ; but no, he 
 hears 
 Their voices die away, and up the hill 
 Now, thinks he, they are climbing, now they 
 
 wind 
 Along the hedgerow path, and now they find 
 The berries that o'erhang it ; even now 
 The red ripe nuts from off the hazel bough 
 Are dropping fast, and then across the brook 
 
 He hears them shouting to each other, through 
 
 The alder-bushes. So his thoughts pursue 
 Those wanderers on their way, until his look 
 Steals wistful to the sunshine, and his book 
 Drops from his hand ; what would he with that 
 glad 
 
 Free company ? too weary for their glee. 
 
In Sadness 43 
 
 Too weak to join their sports — yet he is sad ; 
 
 Then comes his mother, lifting tenderly 
 Her darling on her knee, and all his day 
 Glides peaceful on, though none come back to 
 play. 
 
 The house is very still ; none come between 
 
 Their quiet talk, she smiles on him serene, 
 He speaketh oft to her of those away : 
 So, Father, I am left ! I will not mourn 
 
 To follow after them, so I may be 
 The closer to Thy heart ; — so I am drawn 
 
 Through stillness and through sadness nearer 
 Thee. 
 
44 To 
 
 TO 
 
 {Extract) 
 
 CI^UDDENLY there fell 
 
 '^ A glory from the Heavens, and all the 
 
 dell 
 Was filled with quivering light, as in a cup 
 Its woody hollow caught and kindled up 
 The sun's last sinking flashes ; on the sky 
 There was no cloud, no flaming bar, no line 
 Of fire along the West, but solemnly 
 Heaven glowed into its depths, as if the curse 
 Were lifted upwards from our universe 
 One moment's Sabbath space, and only Love 
 Stooped down above its world. So from 
 
 above 
 A smile dropt visibly on Earth, that prest 
 To meet that sign of reconcilement blest 
 On brow and bosom blest. 
 
Pax in Novissimo 45 
 
 PAX IN NOVISSIMO 
 
 "He gave her therewith a sure token that he 
 was a true messenger, and was come to bid her 
 make haste to be gone. The token was an arrow, 
 sharpened with love, let easily into her heart ; so 
 Christiana knew that her time was come." 
 
 ~VrOT like the rulers of our vanities 
 -^^ At earthly feasts art Thou, Love 
 Divine ; 
 
 These pour their best at first, and still decline 
 At each full-flowing draught, till only lees 
 Of bitterness remain, but Thou dost please 
 
 To keep unto the last Thy richest wine. 
 
 And now this grace-cup, crowned with flowers, 
 o'erflows 
 
 To meet my lips, the music never fell 
 More sweet, yet from the banquet, ere its close, 
 
 I rise to bid the company farewell ; 
 
 I see no sign, I hear no warning bell. 
 No airy tongue my Summoner hath been, 
 
 Yet all my soul by cords invisible 
 Is drawn the surer unto One unseen ; 
 
46 Pax in Novissimo 
 
 For oh, my Father ! whom I have desired 
 By night, and sought for early, not through 
 Man 
 
 Or Angel have I at Thy voice inquired 
 
 Since first my solemn quest for Thee began ; 
 
 Thee, only Thee my spirit hath required 
 
 For Teacher and for Counsellor and Friend ; 
 
 So now Thou needest me. Thou dost not send 
 
 By any other, but within the shade 
 
 Thy awful Presence makes, ere yet the fall 
 Of evening darkens, I can hear Thee call, 
 
 " Come home, my child ! " and I am not 
 afraid ; 
 
 Though oft Thou showedst me a brow austere, 
 And oft Thy lessons, hard to understand. 
 
 Were grievous to me, now Thou drawest near, 
 I see Thy smile, I do not feel Thy hand. 
 
 And He, our Brother kind. 
 Wounded and grieved by us, yet waiting where 
 He passed before our mansions to prepare. 
 
 Made Himself strange at first ; I did not find 
 An instant welcome ; oft with speech severe 
 He questioned me, and oft methought His ear 
 Was turned away, but now I feel His tear 
 
 Upon my cheek. His kiss upon my soul ; 
 
Pax in Novissimo 47 
 
 He biddeth all withdraw, while with His Own 
 He talketh : " How is this, Thou hast not known 
 Thy Brother ? I am Joseph," — now no more 
 
 Doth Love refrain itself because its goal 
 Is well-nigh won, and all its trial sore 
 O'erpast, it leaveth with a brow serene 
 The secret Chamber where so oft unseen 
 It wept before ; 
 
 For ofttimes Love must grieve ; 
 For us content and willing to be sad. 
 It left the halls wherein they made it glad, 
 And came to us that grieved it ; oft below 
 It hides its face because it will not show 
 
 The stain upon it. Now I feel its clear 
 Full shining eyes upon me, and I know 
 
 Soon I shall meet the kiss without the tear ! 
 
 For all my life grows sweet, 
 I know not how to name it ; from behind 
 
 Comes up a murmur voluble and fleet 
 Of mingling voices, some were harsh, some 
 
 kind. 
 But all are tuned to gentleness, the wind 
 That bears them onwards hath so soft a wing, 
 As if it were a Dove unused to bring 
 
48 Pax in Novissimo 
 
 Aught but a loving message ; so Earth sends 
 One only question on it from the track 
 
 Where I have passed, " Friends, friends ? we 
 part as friends ? " 
 And all my soul takes up and sendeth back 
 
 One word for echo and for answer, " Friends." 
 
 And, oh, how fair this Earth 
 I leave ! — methinks of old I never took 
 
 Account of half its loveliness and worth ; 
 Yea, oft I mourned because I could not look 
 More deep within the pages of this Book, 
 God's glorious Book shut in between the eves 
 And glowing morns, I read betwixt the leaves 
 Like one that passes hastily, and failed 
 To catch its import ; yet hath One prevailed 
 To loose its golden clasps, and on her knee 
 He biddeth Nature lift me tenderly. 
 And read thereout her Fairy tales, and tell 
 Where lie her treasures guarded with a spell. 
 She takes me to her heart, she will not hold 
 A secret from me now ! things new and old 
 She brings to please me. Yet, as if she knew — 
 
 A loving nurse — that soon her child must 
 sleep. 
 
 And waken in a land where all things keep 
 
Pax in Novissimo 49 
 
 Their first simplicity, she doth renew 
 Her forms that charmed me earliest ; 
 
 With the dew 
 Still hanging round them, well I know these 
 
 flowers 
 She holds before me ; through the noontide 
 
 hours 
 I looked not on their hues ; they did not 
 
 burst 
 To gorgeous life, like some that I have nursed, 
 Shut from the ruder air, until they caught 
 Through each broad leaf a colouring of thought. 
 And spake a symbol-language too intense, 
 The while each lamp-lit urn 
 Did glow and spread and burn 
 Its heart away in odours, till the sense 
 Waxed faint through fragrance ; ngt like these 
 of bold 
 Magnificence, nor dearer flowers that grew 
 Familiar by my path, with whom of old 
 
 I talked so secretly, it seemed we drew 
 A common breath, until methought they took 
 A human aspect, and like friends that know 
 Too much the heart's deep history, their look 
 Hath ofttimes troubled me ; 
 
50 Pax in Novissimo 
 
 But these did blow 
 For me in meadows wide, ere yet I knew 
 That flowers were charactered with joy or 
 
 grief; 
 Ye hid no secret in your folded leaf, — 
 Flowers innocent and cool 
 That hung above the pool. 
 Or thrid with gold the pleasant pastures 
 
 through ; 
 I learned no " Ai, Ai," in your school, 
 
 Quaint orchis, speedwells blue. 
 And slender cups that grew 
 Deep in the woods, pale purple-veined and 
 brimming o'er with dew. 
 
 I see the quiet glade 
 Slope sunward, shut among its hills that lie 
 With light upon their brows ; I hear the cry 
 Of wheeling rooks, the little brook goes by 
 And lifts a hurrying voice as one afraid 
 To linger on its way ; within the shade 
 Moss-cushioned now I sit, where once my day 
 Cast all its wealth of Summer hours away 
 Upon a book of Marvels ; sunbeams hid 
 Among the boughs came trickling down, and 
 slid 
 
Pax in Novissimo 51 
 
 From page to page to light me on my way ; 
 The charm that fled, the glory that forsook 
 Flow back upon my spirit ; I am glad 
 Of ye, sweet scenes, sweet thoughts ! I know 
 the look 
 Ye turn upon me, it hath nothing sad ; 
 Long, long ago, yet not through blame of mine, 
 I left you far behind me on my track, 
 Now flits the shadow on Life's Dial back, 
 Twice ten degrees to find you ; things Divine 
 Are imaged by the earthly, it was meet 
 That I should gather in my soul these sweet, 
 Long-parted, childish fancies, ere I go 
 Where none but children enter ; 
 
 Even so ; 
 I sleep at noon ; all household noises cease, 
 No voices call me from without ; the room 
 Is hushed and darkened round me ; through the 
 
 gloom 
 One friend beloved keeps moving to and fro 
 With step so quiet, oft I only know 
 
 Her presence by her gentle breathing, — 
 Peace ! 
 
52 The Shepherd's Sabbath Song 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S SABBATH SONG 
 
 {Translated from the German of Uhland) 
 
 rpHIS is the Lord's bright Day ! 
 -*- I am alone upon the plains. 
 
 sound 
 Of morning-bells awakens round 
 
 With music on my way ; 
 
 Yet kneeling here, I pray, 
 Lord, in silent awe ! I feel 
 That many also pray and kneel 
 
 LTnseen, beside me here. 
 
 The listening heavens are clear 
 As if, through solemn depths of blue 
 Their doors were opening on my view, — 
 
 This is the Lord's bright Day. 
 
 No 
 
II 
 
 Poems published in 1867 
 
 S3 
 
HOME 
 
 rilWO birds within one nest ; 
 
 -*- Two hearts within one breast ; 
 Two spirits in one fair 
 Firm league of love and prayer, 
 
 Together bound for aye, together blest. 
 
 An ear that waits to catch 
 
 A hand upon the latch ; 
 
 A step that hastens its sweet rest to win, 
 A world of care without, 
 A world of strife shut out, 
 
 A world of love shut in. 
 
56 Imitated from the 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE TROUBADOUR 
 SORDEL 
 
 TTER words, methinks, were cold and few ; 
 -*— *- We parted coldly ; yet, 
 Quick-turning after that adieu, 
 
 How kind a glance I met ! 
 A look that was not meant for me, 
 
 Yet sweeter for surprise, 
 As if her soul took leave to be 
 
 One moment in her eyes : 
 Now tell me, tell me, gentle friends, 
 
 Oh, which shall I believe, 
 Her eyes, her eyes that bid me hope, 
 
 Her words that bid me grieve ? 
 
 Her words, methinks, were few and cold : 
 What matter ! Now I trust, 
 
 Kind eyes, unto your tale half-told, 
 Ye speak because ye must ! 
 
 Too oft will heavy laws constrain 
 The lips, compelled to bear 
 
Troubadour Sordel 57 
 
 A message false ; too often fain 
 To speak but what they dare ; 
 
 Full oft will words, will smiles betray, 
 But tears are always true ; 
 
 Looks ever mean the thing they say — 
 Kind eyes, I trust to you ! 
 
 Her looks were kind — oh, gentle eyes, 
 
 Love trusts you. Still he sends 
 By you his questions, his rephes, 
 
 He knows you for his friends. 
 Oh, gentle, gentle eyes, by Love 
 
 So trusted, and so true 
 To Love, ye could not if ye would 
 
 Deceive, I trust to you ! 
 
58 The Singer 
 
 THE SINGER 
 
 {From a Provencal Poem of the Ninth Century) 
 
 TTOW thick the grasses spring 
 
 -*— ^ In May ! how sweetly ring 
 
 The woods with song of many birds ! the note 
 
 That is of all most sweet, 
 
 Most varied, most complete, 
 
 Comes from a little bird of slender throat, 
 
 The Nightingale, that sings 
 
 Through all the night, and flings 
 
 Upon the wood's dark breast her sweet lament. 
 
 What ! little bird, dost seek 
 
 To conquer with thy beak 
 
 The lyre's full ringing,chords? be well content : 
 
 A Minstrel to thy song 
 
 Long listened, lingering long ; 
 
 A Prince a moment paused upon his way — 
 
The Singer 59 
 
 " Sweet, sweet ! " they said, and then 
 
 Passed onwards, while again 
 
 Broke from the topmost bough thy thrilling lay. 
 
 What ! thinkest thou to chain 
 
 The world ? thou dost not strain 
 
 Thy slender throat, forgetful of its need. 
 
 Thou carest but to sing — 
 
 Yet who is found to bring, 
 
 To stay thy want, a berry or a seed ? 
 
 They praise thy song, and yet 
 
 They pass thee, and forget ; 
 
 None feedeth thee save He who gave thy strain 
 
 Oh ! why wilt thou prolong 
 
 Thy sweet, thy mournful song, 
 
 Unwearied, while the world to sleep is fain ? 
 
 When Summer comes, unstirred 
 
 Are all the leaves, the bird 
 
 Is silent, while her callow young are tended. 
 
 When Winter comes, the leaves 
 
 Fall off, and no one grieves ; 
 
 The singer dies, her little song is ended ! 
 
6o To L. A. C. 
 
 TO L. A. C 
 
 /^H, hast thou won my heart, my love ? 
 ^-^ What gain to thee ? what gain ? 
 It plights thee with- no golden ring, 
 
 It decks thee with no chain ; 
 A simple thing, yet it will bring 
 
 To thee, my love, no pain ; 
 To give thee rest, to make thee blest 
 It hath been ever fain, my love, 
 
 It hath been ever fain. 
 
 Oh, have I won thy heart, my love ? 
 
 What gain to me ! what gain ! 
 What brooding calm, what soothing balm. 
 
 What sweet release from pain ! 
 Through sudden rest my spirit guessed 
 
 What hour to me it came, 
 And day by day I mark its stay 
 Through comfort of the same, my love. 
 
 Through comfort of the same. 
 
Pleasant to Remember Thee 6i 
 
 IF IT BE PLEASANT TO REMEMBER 
 THEE 
 
 XF it be pleasant to remember thee, 
 
 -^ What is it, then, what is it to forget thee, 
 
 But for a space, one moment's space to be 
 
 As though I ne'er had loved, or known, or 
 met thee ? 
 My soaring soul on some high quest to send, 
 
 On some stern task to bind my strength's 
 endeavour. 
 Then, Hke the bird, with rapid wing descend 
 
 Upon the nest that is my own for ever. 
 
 By some sweet song, by some dear dream to be 
 
 Upon my lonely way entranced, o'ertaken ; 
 Awhile, awhile to cease to think of thee, 
 
 Then in the sweetness of thy soul to waken ! 
 Sweet dream, with day pass not away. 
 
 As once in hours when all my joys were 
 fleeter ; 
 Dear haunting lay, I bid thee stay. 
 
 And in my heart for ever more grow sweeter. 
 
62 Pleasant to Remember Thee 
 
 If still to bear thee in my mind be sweet, 
 
 What is it then, what is it then to lose thee? 
 In play with life to let the moments cheat 
 
 My steadfast heart that flies again to choose 
 thee? 
 Afar, I see thee lift thy soul in prayer, 
 
 I see thee in thy quiet ways abiding ; 
 Oh, sweet to me hath grown the common air, 
 
 To me, for whom the Rose of life is hiding ! 
 
A Song 63 
 
 A SONG 
 
 TT' ISS me before I sleep, 
 
 -■-^ Oh gentle child, oh loving child ! that 
 
 so 
 My spirit, ere it sinks within the wide 
 Dim world of shrouded dreams, unsatisfied. 
 And seeking ever, unto thine may grow. 
 Nor stir, nor move, nor wander to and fro ; 
 Kiss me before I sleep ! 
 
 Kiss me before I wake, 
 Oh loving child, oh child beloved, that so 
 The sweetness of thy soul, thy smile, thine 
 
 May meet my spirit on its way to take 
 The chill from off this life of ours, and make 
 A world more kind and warm wherein to 
 
 rise ; 
 
 Kiss me before I wake." 
 
64 Amid Change, Unchanging 
 
 AMID CHANGE, UNCHANGING 
 
 ri^HE Poet singeth like the bird that sitteth 
 -*- by the rose, 
 While dews are chill, and on the hill the first 
 
 faint sunbeam glows ; 
 While through the buds' thick-folded green 
 the first red rose-streak shows. 
 Sing, Poet, sing of Hope and Spring, 
 Still sing beside thy rose ! 
 
 The Poet singeth like the bird that sitteth by 
 
 the rose. 
 While on the golden summer noon her golden 
 
 heart o'eflows ; 
 And now she waxeth red, now pale, yet ever 
 is the rose. 
 Sing, Poet, sooth of love and youth, 
 Still sing beside thy rose ! 
 
Amid Change, Unchanging 65 
 
 The Poet singeth like the bird that sitteth by 
 
 the rose, 
 When from the drooping stalk her brief sweet 
 
 glory earthward goes, 
 And the red is kindling on the leaf that fadeth 
 from the rose. 
 Sing, Poet, sing, remembering, 
 Still sing beside thy rose ! 
 
66 The Bridge 
 
 THE BRIDGE 
 
 NOON 
 
 WE lingered on the rustic bridge, 
 We saw the pebbles in the stream 
 Below us, clear in amber light 
 
 Of noonday, flash and gleam ; 
 Afar, the yellow flag-flowers caught 
 
 A glory from the flitting beam, 
 And all was still and fair, methought, 
 And golden as a dream. 
 
 Oh, might this hour not pass away ! 
 
 Oh, were it given to us, not lent ! 
 And might we, framed within it, stay, 
 
 A breathing picture of content ! 
 And hear the babbling waters run, 
 
 And hear the distant stock-dove coo. 
 And dream that in the world were none 
 
 But only I and you. 
 
The Summons 67 
 
 THE SUMMONS 
 
 1ITETH0UGHT from out the crowd a 
 -^*-'- steadfast eye 
 
 Did single out mine own. A voice Divine 
 Was borne within my soul, in tones that made 
 Such depth of music there, the sense did fade 
 Through sweetness that it kindled ; Lord, for 
 Thine 
 I knew the voice full well ! and yet I heard 
 Of all Thou spakest then one only word ; 
 My Name. Thou calledst me. I must prepare 
 For Thee this day! and wilt Thou come and 
 share 
 My midday meal, while I with heart elate 
 Shall wait on Thee, or wilt Thou rather wait 
 On me, Thy servant ? through this noontide 
 
 glare 
 Thy Banner drawing tenderly, to spread 
 An early dusk that I may lay my head 
 The sooner at Thy supper on Thy breast ? 
 It matters little. Lord ! or come or send — 
 Take Thou my spirit hence, or like a Friend 
 Make Thou Thy home within it, — I am blest. 
 
 G 
 
68 A Scherzo 
 
 A SCHERZO 
 
 A SHY person's WISHES 
 
 "TTTITH the wasp at the innermost heart 
 
 ' ' of a peach, 
 On a sunny wall out of tip-toe reach, 
 With the trout in the darkest summer pool, 
 With the fern-seed chnging behind its cool 
 Smooth frond, in the chink of an aged tree, 
 In the woodbine's horn with the drunken bee, 
 With the mouse in its nest in a furrow old. 
 With the chrysalis wrapt in its gauzy fold ; 
 With things that are hidden, and safe, and bold. 
 With things that are timid, and shy, and free. 
 Wishing to be ; 
 With the nut in its shell, with the seed in its 
 
 pod. 
 With the corn as it sprouts in the kindly clod. 
 Far down where the secret of beauty shows 
 In the bulb of the tulip, before it blows ; 
 With things that are rooted, and firm, and deep. 
 Quiet to lie, and dreamless to sleep ; 
 
A Scherzo 69 
 
 With things that are chainless, and tameless, 
 
 and proud, 
 With the fire in the jagged thunder-cloud. 
 With the wind in its sleep, with the wind in 
 
 its waking. 
 With the drops that go to the rainbow's making, 
 Wishing to be with the light leaves shaking. 
 Or stones on some desolate highway breaking ; 
 Far up on the hills, where no foot surprises 
 The dew as it falls, or the dust as it rises ; 
 To be couched with the beast in its torrid lair. 
 Or drifting on ice with the polar bear, 
 With the weaver at work at his quiet loom ; 
 Anywhere, anywhere, out of this room ! 
 
70 To a Remembered Stream 
 
 TO A REMEMBERED STREAM, AND 
 A NEVER FORGOTTEN FRIEND 
 
 WBET stream, the haunt of solitary hern 
 '^ And shy kingfisher, far from busy town 
 Or even populous hamlet, winding down 
 Through banks thick fringed with underwood 
 
 and fern 
 And hazel thickets, where the ripe nuts turn 
 Unmarked and slow to Autumn's ruddy 
 
 brown ; 
 Where gems thy single rock its feathery 
 
 crown 
 (For nought of thine looks ever sad or stern !) 
 With berried scarlet of the mountain ash ; 
 
 1 never hear 'mid waking dreams thy dash 
 Above the pebbles, but I think on One 
 Whose course of days hath by thy waters 
 
 run, 
 A course like thine of calm and quietness, 
 Nor ever raised a voice except to bless ! 
 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 71 
 
 TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 IN 1851 
 
 T LOSE myself within thy mind — from room 
 -*- To goodly room thou leadest me, and 
 still 
 
 Dost show me of thy glory more, until 
 My soul like Sheba's Queen faints, overcome, 
 And all my spirit dies within me, numb. 
 
 Sucked in by thine, a larger star, at will ; 
 
 And hasting like thy bee, my hive to fill, 
 I " swoon for very joy " amid thy bloom ; 
 Till — not like that poor bird (as poets feign) 
 
 That tried against the Lutanist's her skill, 
 
 Crowding her thick precipitate notes, until 
 Her weak heart brake above the contest 
 vain — 
 
 Did not thy strength a nobler thought 
 instil, 
 I feel as if I ne'er could sing again ! 
 
72 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
 
 TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 IN 1861 
 
 T PRAISED thee not while living ; what to 
 
 -'- thee 
 
 Was praise of mine ? I mourned thee not when 
 dead ; 
 I only loved thee, — love thee ! oh thou fled 
 
 Fair spirit, free at last where all are free, 
 
 I only love thee, bless thee, that to me 
 Forever thou hast made the rose more red, 
 More sweet each word by olden singers said 
 
 In sadness, or by children in their glee ; 
 Once, only once in life I heard thee speak. 
 Once, only once I kissed thee on the cheek, 
 
 And met thy kiss and blessing ; scarce I knew 
 
 Thy smile, I only loved thee, only grew 
 
 Through wealth, through strength of thine, 
 less poor, less weak ; 
 
 Oh what hath death with souls like thine 
 to do? 
 
The Reconciler 73 
 
 THE RECONCILER 
 
 {Extracts) 
 
 A ND first with Life 
 -^^- Thou madest friends for us ; our lives 
 in Thine 
 Grow kind and gracious, Lord, when Thou 
 didst make 
 Thy soul an offering for sin, Thy love 
 Was even unto Death ; yea, far above. 
 
 For Thou didst suffer Life for us ; to take 
 More hard than to resign. 
 
 And since this garment old 
 And fretted by the moth Thy love hath borne 
 
 Upon Thee, all that wear it in its fold 
 With Thee enwrapt and gathered, have grown 
 
 bold, 
 To Thee and to each other closer drawn ; 
 Pale grows our purple pride 
 Beside this vesture dyed 
 In Kingly blood ; before our common name 
 We feel our titles but a gorgeous shame. 
 
•74 The Reconciler 
 
 That doth betray, not clothe, our nakedness ; 
 But Heaven and Earth have been 
 More near, since Earth hath seen 
 Its God walk Earth as Man; since Heaven 
 hath shown 
 
 A Man upon its throne ; 
 The street and market-place 
 Grow holy ground ; each face 
 (Pale faces, marked with care, 
 Dark, toil-worn brows) grows fair ; 
 King's children are these all ; though want and 
 
 sin 
 Have marred their beauty glorious within, 
 We may not pass them but with reverent 
 eye; 
 As when we see some goodly temple graced 
 To be Thy dwelling, ruined and defaced, 
 The haunt of sad and doleful creatures, lie 
 Bare to the sky, and open to the gust, 
 
 It grieveth us to see This House laid waste. 
 It pitieth us to see it in the dust ! 
 
 The World that puts Thee by, 
 That opens not to greet Thee with Thy 
 train, 
 That sendeth after Thee the sullen cry, 
 
The Reconciler 75 
 
 " We will not have Thee over us to reign ; " 
 Itself doth testify, through searchings vain 
 Of Thee and of its need, and for the good 
 It will not, of some base similitude 
 Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood. 
 Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and 
 
 tear 
 Its own illusions, grown too thin and bare 
 To wrap it longer ; for within the gate 
 Where all must pass, a veiled and hooded 
 
 Fate, 
 A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies 
 (And he who answers not its questions dies), 
 Still changing form and speech, but with the 
 
 same 
 Vexed riddles, Gordian - twisted, bringing 
 
 shame 
 Upon the nations that with eager cry 
 Hail each new solver of the mystery ; 
 Yet he, of these the best. 
 Bold guesser, hath but prest 
 Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong ; 
 True Champion, that hast wrought 
 Our help of old, and brought 
 Meat from this eater, sweetness from this 
 
 strong. 
 
76 The Reconciler 
 
 Oh, Bearer of the key 
 That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet 
 
 Its turning in the wards is melody, 
 All things we move among are incomplete 
 
 And vain until we fashion them in Thee ! 
 We labour in the fire. 
 
 Thick smoke is round about us, through the din 
 Of words that darken counsel, clamours dire 
 
 Ring from thought's beaten anvil, where 
 within 
 Two Giants toil, that even from their birth 
 With travail-pangs have torn their mother 
 
 Earth, 
 And wearied out her children with their keen 
 Upbraidings of the other, till between 
 Thou earnest, saying, " Wherefore do ye wrong 
 Each other? — ye are Brethren." Then these 
 
 twain 
 Will own their kindred, and in Thee retain 
 
 Their claims in peace, because Thy land is 
 wide 
 As it is goodly ; here they pasture free. 
 
 This lion and this leopard, side by side, 
 A little child doth lead them with a song ; 
 Now, Ephraim's envy ceaseth, and no more 
 Doth Judah anger Ephraim chiding sore. 
 
The Reconciler 
 
 77 
 
 For one did ask a Brother, one a King, 
 So dost Thou gather them in one, and bring, 
 Thou, King for evermore, for ever Priest, 
 Thou, Brother of our own from bonds released, 
 
 A Law of Liberty, 
 
 A Service making free, 
 A Commonweal, where each has all in Thee. ' 
 
78 The Cleft 
 
 THE CLEFT 
 1861 
 
 " ' Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. 
 
 ' Oh, throw away the worser part of it, 
 And live the purer with the other half.' " 
 
 rriHE skies have voices soft 
 -■- And loud, they mutter oft, 
 
 Dissolve and break in tears of joy and wonder ; 
 More fierce the shock, the din 
 More harsh, when from within 
 
 Earth shakes, self-torn, and riven with secret 
 thunder ; 
 
 And now a ghastly cleft 
 Yawns wide from right to left, 
 And sucks and draws the Western World 
 within it ; 
 
The Cleft 79 
 
 What voice, what arm uplift 
 This dire encroaching rift 
 May close with sovereign spell? and how 
 begin it ? 
 
 In such a gulf of old 
 
 The Roman flung, not gold, 
 
 But Youth's heroic hope and Strength's en- 
 deavour ; 
 
 Yet this one of the best 
 Hath ta'en, and for the i-est 
 
 Still craves, unclosed, insatiate, widening ever. 
 
 Say will ye smoothe it over. 
 And bid the maid and lover 
 Dance here away their light-linked hours of 
 leisure ? 
 
 Yea, smoothe it over, sow it 
 With grass and flowers ; below it 
 Are sounds that mingle strangely with the 
 measure. 
 
 Or, leaning o'er its edges. 
 Now will ye barter pledges 
 With clasping hands, and talk of hearts com- 
 bining. 
 
8o The Cleft 
 
 Or plant the rootless tree 
 Within it, — Liberty, 
 Hung round with garlands and with ribbons 
 shining ? 
 
 The jagged cleft from side 
 To side yawns yet more wide ; 
 
 And Echo from within, your words recalling, 
 Hath sent from out the ground 
 The yet more hollow sound 
 
 Of loosened earth upon a coffin falling. 
 
 Then let it yawn to sever 
 The Bond and Free for ever ; 
 
 Than Falsehood's hectic flush of vain relying. 
 On Freedom's cheek more fair 
 The glow of health, though there 
 
 Across it broad and deep a scar be lying. 
 
 Yea, let the sword pierce through 
 
 This tangle, and undo 
 The knot that doth but harder twist for 
 friction : 
 
 Oh, seek not now to bind 
 
 What God hath loosed ! no khid 
 Espousals these, but fettered, galled constriction. 
 
The Cleft 8i 
 
 When life meets life with kiss 
 Of rapture strong, oh ! this 
 
 Is union, this is strength ; then leave the dying 
 With Death their troth to plight, 
 In charnel vaults by night, 
 
 'Mid dead men's bones and all uncleanness 
 lying- 
 There leave them ! let the wide. 
 Deep chasm still divide 
 
 'Twixt Night and Day, 'twixt Light and Dark- 
 ness ; know 
 
 That greater than the whole 
 Is now the part ; the soul 
 
 Is nobler than the body, — let them go ! 
 
82 " The Saturday Review " 
 
 "THE SATURDAY REVIEW" 
 
 T EARN to live, and live and learn," 
 -'-^ In the days when I used to go to 
 school, 
 Would always pass for an excellent rule ; 
 But now it's grown a serious concern 
 The number of things I've had to unlearn 
 Since first I began the page to turn 
 
 Of The Saturday Review. 
 For once (I believe) I believed in truth 
 
 And love, and the hundred foolish things 
 One sees in one's dreams and believes in one's 
 youth, — 
 
 In Angels with curls, and in Angels with 
 wings, 
 In Saints, and Heroes, and Shepherds too ; 
 The pictures that David and Virgil drew 
 
 So sweetly, I thought were taken 
 From very life, but now I find 
 A Shepherd is but an uncouth Hind, 
 Songless, soulless, from time out of mind. 
 
 Who has cared for nothing but bacon. 
 
''The Saturday Review*' 83 
 
 And though to confess it may well seem strange, 
 
 When I had them by scores and dozens 
 (I was young, to be sure, and all things change), 
 
 I really have liked my cousins. 
 And schoolfellows too, and can bring to mind 
 Some uncles of mine who were truly kind. 
 
 And aunts who were far from crusty ; 
 And even my country neighbours too 
 Didn't seem by half such a tedious crew 
 
 As now I find they must be. 
 
 And I used to think it might be kind. 
 
 In the world's great marching order. 
 To help the poor stragglers left behind, 
 Halt and maimed, and broken and blind. 
 
 On their way to a distant border ; 
 Not to speak of the virtuous poor, I thought 
 
 There was here and there a sinner 
 Might be mended a little, though not of the sort 
 
 One would think of asking to dinner. 
 But now I find that no one believes 
 In Ragged Children, or Penitent Thieves, 
 Or Homeless Homes, but a few Old Maids 
 Who have tried and failed at all other trades 
 And who take to these things for recreation 
 In their aimless life's dull Long Vacation. 
 
 H 
 
§4 "The Saturday Review" 
 
 And so as we're going along with the Priest 
 And Levite (the roads are more dry in the 
 East) 
 
 We need have no hesitation, 
 When the mud is lying about so thick, 
 To scatter a little and let it stick 
 To the coat of the Good Samaritan, used 
 To be spattered, battered, blackened, and 
 
 bruised ; 
 These sort of people don't mind it the least — 
 
 Why, bless you, it's their vocation ! 
 
 Yet sometimes I've thought it a little strange, — 
 When good people get such very hard change, 
 
 In return for their kindly halfpence, 
 When the few who are grieved for sorrows and 
 
 sins 
 Are bowled to the earth like wooden pins. 
 When to care for the heathen, or pity the 
 
 slave, 
 Sets a man down for fool or knave, 
 
 With The Saturday in its sapience, — 
 Things that are mean and base and low 
 Are checked by never a word or blow ; 
 The gaping crowds that go in hope 
 To see Blondin slip from the cruel rope 
 
"The Saturday Review" 85 
 
 Tightened or slack, and come away 
 In trust of more luck another day, 
 
 Meet never a line's reproving ; 
 Heenan and Sayers may pound and thwack 
 Each other blue and yellow and black, 
 And only get a pat on the back 
 
 From the power that keeps all moving. 
 
 And I sometimes think, if this same Review, 
 And the world a little longer too 
 Should last, will the violets come out blue ? 
 Will the rose be red, and will lovers woo 
 In the foolish way that they used to do ? 
 Will doves in the summer woodlands coo. 
 And the nightingales mourn without asking 
 
 leave ? 
 Will the lark have an instinct left to cleave 
 The sunny air with her song and her wing ? — 
 Perhaps we may move to abohsh spring ; 
 And now that we've grown so hard to please. 
 We may think that we're bored by the grass 
 
 and the trees ; 
 The moon may be proved a piece of cheese, 
 
 Or an operatic delusion. 
 Fathers and Mothers may have to go, 
 Brothers and Sisters be voted slow, 
 
86 "The Saturday Review" 
 
 Christmas a tax that one's forced to pay, 
 And Heaven itself but an out-of-the-way 
 Old-fashioned place that has had its day, 
 That one wouldn't a residence choose in. 
 
 And though so easily learnt, and brief 
 
 Is the form our new faith's put in. 
 When we've saicl, "I believe in a Round of Beef, 
 
 And live by a leg of Mutton," 
 We come to another region of facts, 
 That are met quite as well by the Gospel and Acts 
 
 As by any teaching that's newer^ 
 Life has its problems hard to clear. 
 And its knots too stiiF to be cut by the sneer 
 
 Of the sharpest, smartest Reviewer. 
 
A Dialogue in 1863 87 
 
 A DIALOGUE IN 1863 
 
 " TTTELL, what news have you got to-day, 
 ' " neighbour ? " " Why, the Prince is 
 going to be wed 
 To the Princess Royal of Denmark." "Ay, so I 
 
 hear it is said. 
 And she'll be a grand young lady, there's no 
 
 doubt at all ; but you see 
 I never set eyes on the Prince in my life, and 
 he knows nought about me." 
 
 " And what other news have you got, neigh- 
 bour ? " " Oh, terrible news ; abroad 
 
 The great Garibaldi's taken and wounded." 
 "Was he some Lord 
 
 Or King ? But I know so little of these people 
 beyond the sea, 
 
 They seem to be always fighting, it's a pity they 
 cannot agree." 
 
 "Why, then, if you come to fighting, the 
 
 Yankees are at it still. 
 As hard as ever they were at the first." " Well, 
 
 they must then, if they will. 
 
88 A Dialogue in 1863 
 
 I suppose they're a sort of cousins of ours ; but 
 
 then they're so very far 
 Removed, that it doesn't much matter to us 
 
 how long they go on with the war." 
 
 " Now there you are out for once, neighbour, 
 
 for its neither more nor less 
 Than their keeping up of this war so long that's 
 
 causing our great distress. 
 They've given up growing their cotton, and 
 
 sending us any to spin, 
 And that's the way things keep going wrong, 
 
 you see, when once they begin. 
 
 "You're not a reader like me, neighbour, or 
 
 you wouldn't soon forget 
 The things that they tell in the papers; my 
 
 word, but they're sharply set 
 In Lancashire now ; and it's my belief, that if 
 
 things don't soon work through 
 They'll be taking to dying off pretty fast, if 
 
 they've nothing else left them to do. 
 
 " Why now, how would you like it, neighbour ? 
 
 I think you would look rather blank 
 If you hadn't a shilling left in the house, nor a 
 
 guinea left in the Bank, 
 
A Dialogue in 1863 89 
 
 If first you'd to part with your silver watch, and 
 then with your handsome clock, 
 
 And then with your quilt, and blankets, and 
 bed, till at last you came to the stock ! 
 
 " Until when you looked about your room there 
 
 was nothing to see at aU 
 But just a table, perhaps, and a chair, and the 
 
 roof and the floor and the wall. 
 And how would you like to sell your best black 
 
 coat that you've worn so long ? 
 Or your wife to have to go out and pawn her 
 
 good Sunday cloak for a song ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't like it at all, neighbour, and as to 
 
 my wife, why she 
 Would take on, perhaps, if all were known, a 
 
 great deal worse than me." 
 "And then when there's nothing to do, you 
 
 see, there's always so little to eat ; 
 And only think of the children, neighbour, how 
 
 they must be missing their meat ! 
 
 "Now there's that curly Jem of yours, that 
 
 likes nothing he gets so well 
 As what he gets with his granny and you, as 
 
 I've heard you so often tell. 
 
90 A Dialogue in 1863 
 
 That just when you're sitting down to your 
 meat he's sure to come peeping in, 
 
 You wouldn't like it so well, neighbour, to 
 see him growing thin." 
 
 "I shouldn't like it at all, neighbour, I tell 
 you, but where's the good 
 
 Of talking when folks are starving ? sure I'd 
 help them if I could." 
 
 " Well, there's nothing so easy as that, neigh- 
 bour, you haven't got far to send — 
 
 It's only like taking a bit of your dinner across 
 to an ailing friend." 
 
 " Why not quite so easy as that, neighbour, for 
 
 if things are as bad as you say. 
 It's little to better them that we can do by 
 
 giving them once in a way." 
 "Well, giving them once in a way perhaps 
 
 would come rather short ; but then 
 There is nothing to stop us, that I can see, 
 
 from giving them once and again." 
 
 "Why that's very pretty talk, neighbour, but 
 
 then to be always giving 
 Doesn't come quite so easy to folks like us that 
 
 have to work hard for our living." 
 
A Dialogue in 1863 91 
 
 " Well, as to the matter of that, neighbour, if 
 
 we haven't got much to spare 
 There'll just be the less to send, but still we 
 
 may always have something to share. 
 
 "We might all of us give far more than we 
 
 do, without being a bit the worse ; 
 It was never yet loving that emptied the heart, 
 
 or giving that emptied the purse. 
 We must be like the woman our Saviour 
 
 praised, and do but the best we can.'' 
 " Ay, that'll be just the plan, neighbour, that'll 
 
 be just the plan." 
 
92 A Christmas Carol 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 1863 
 
 IF ye would hear the Angels sing 
 " Peace on earth and mercy mild," 
 Think of Him who was once a child, 
 On Christmas Day in the morning. 
 
 If ye would hear the Angels sing, 
 Christians ! see ye let each door 
 Stand wider than ever it stood before. 
 On Christmas Day in the morning. 
 
 Rise, and open wide the door ; 
 Christians, rise ! the world is wide. 
 And many there be that stand outside, 
 Yet Christmas comes in the morning. 
 
 If ye would hear the Angels sing. 
 Rise and spread your Christmas fare ; 
 'Tis merrier still the more that share, 
 On Christmas Day in the morning. 
 
A Christmas Carol 93 
 
 Rise, and bake your Christmas bread ; 
 Christians, rise ! the world is bare. 
 And bleak, and dark with want and care. 
 Yet Christmas comes in the morning. 
 
 If ye would hear the Angels sing, 
 Rise and light your Christmas fire ; 
 And see that ye pile the logs still higher. 
 On Christmas Day in the morning. 
 
 Rise, and light your Christmas fire ; 
 Christians, rise ! the world is old. 
 And Time is weary, and worn, and cold. 
 Yet Christmas comes in the morning. 
 
 If ye would hear the Angels sing, 
 
 Rise and spice your wassail bowl 
 
 With warmth for body, and heart, and soul. 
 
 On Christmas Day in the morning. 
 
 Spice it warm, and spice it strong, 
 Christians, rise ! the world is grey. 
 And rough is the road, and short is the day, 
 Yet Christmas comes in the morning. 
 
94 
 
 A Christmas Carol 
 
 If ye would hear the Angels sing, 
 Christians ! think on Him who died ; 
 Think of your Lord, the Crucified, 
 On Christmas Day in the morning. 
 
Go and Come 95 
 
 GO AND COME 
 
 rpHOU sayest to us, " Go, 
 -*- And work while it is called to-day ; the 
 
 sun 
 Is high in heaven, the harvest but begun ; 
 Can hands oft raised in prayer, can hearts that 
 
 know 
 The beat of Mine through love and pain be slow 
 To soothe and strengthen ? " still Thou sayest 
 
 "Go; 
 Lift up your eyes and see where now the Line 
 Of God hath fallen from you, one with Mine 
 Your Lot and Portion. Go, where none 
 
 relieves. 
 Where no one pities, thrust the sickle in 
 And reap and bind, where toil and want and sin 
 Are standing white, for here My harvests grow ; 
 Go, glean for Me 'mid wasted frames outworn, 
 'Mid souls uncheered, uncared for ; hearts for- 
 lorn, 
 With care and grief acquainted long, unknown 
 To earthly friend, of Heaven unmindful grown ; 
 
96 Go and Come 
 
 In homes where no one loves, where none 
 
 believes, 
 For here I gather in My goodly sheaves ; " 
 Thou sayest to us, " Go." 
 
 Thou sayest to us, " Go 
 To conflict and to death ; " while friends are few 
 And foes are many, what hast Thou to do 
 With peace. Thou Son of Peace ? A man of war 
 Art Thou from Youth. When Thou dost girded 
 
 ride. 
 Two stern instuctors, Truth and Mercy, guide 
 Thy hand to things of terror ; friends and foes 
 Thine arrows feel ; a sword before Thee goes, 
 And after Thee a fire, confusion stirred 
 Among the nations even by the word 
 Of Meekness and of Right; "Yea, take and 
 
 eat 
 Of these my words," Thou sayest, " They are 
 
 sweet 
 As honey ; yet this roll that now I press 
 Upon your lips will turn to bitterness 
 When ye shall speak its message ; lo, a cry 
 Of wrath and madness, ere the ancient Lie 
 That wraps the roots of earth will quit its hold, 
 A shriek, a wrench abhorred ; and yet be bold. 
 
Go and Come 97 
 
 Oh, ye my servants ! take my rod and stand 
 Before the King, nor fear if in your hand 
 It seem unto a serpent's form to grow ; 
 Rise up, my Priests! my Mighty Men, with 
 
 sound 
 Of solemn trumpet, walk this city round, 
 A blast will come from God, His word and will 
 Through hail, and storm, and ruin, to fulfil ; 
 Then shall ye see the towers roll down, the wall 
 Built up with blood, and tears, and tortures, 
 
 fall, 
 And from the living grave the living Dead 
 Will rise, as from their sleep disquieted ; 
 Earth, this baptism of thine is slow ! 
 Not dews from morning's womb, not gentle 
 
 rains 
 That drop all night can wash away thy stains. 
 The fire must fall from Heaven ; the blood 
 
 must flow 
 All round the altar ; " — still Thou sayest, " Go." 
 
 And that Thou sayest, " Go," 
 Our hearts are glad ; for he is still Thy friend 
 And best beloved of all, whom Thou dost send 
 The farthest from Thee ; this Thy servants 
 know; 
 
98 Go and Come 
 
 Oh, send by whom Thou wilt, for they are blest 
 Who go Thine errands ! Not upon Thy breast 
 We learn Thy secrets. Long beside Thy tomb 
 We wept, and lingered in the Garden's gloom ; 
 And oft we sought Thee in Thy House of Prayer 
 And in the desert, yet Thou wert not there ; 
 But as we journeyed sadly through a place 
 Obscure and mean, we lighted on the trace 
 Of Thy fresh footprints, and a whisper clear 
 Fell on our spirits, — Thou Thyself wert near ; 
 And from Thy servants' hearts Thy name 
 
 adored 
 Brake forth in fire ; we said, " It is the Lord." 
 Our eyes were no more holden ; on Thy face 
 We looked, and it was comely ; full of grace. 
 And fair Thy lips ; we held Thee by the feet. 
 We listened to Thy voice, and it was sweet. 
 
 And sweet the silence of our spirits ; dumb 
 All other voices in the world that be 
 The while Thou saidest, " Come ye uuto Me," 
 
 The while Thou saidest, " Come." 
 
 We said to Thee, " Abide 
 With us, the night draws on apace ; " but, lo ! 
 The cloud received Thee, parted from our 
 side. 
 
Go and Come 99 
 
 In blessing parted from us ! Even so 
 
 The Heaven of Heavens must still receive 
 Thee ; dark 
 And moonless skies bend o'er us as we row, 
 
 No stars appear, and sore against our bark 
 The current sets ; yet nearer grows the shore 
 Where we shall see Thee standing, never more 
 To bid us leave Thee. Though Thy realm is 
 
 wide. 
 And mansions many, never from Thy side 
 Thou sendest us again ; by springs serene 
 Thou guidest us, and now to battle keen 
 We follow Thee, yet still, in peace or war, 
 Thou leadest us. Oh, not to sun or star 
 Thou sendest us, but sayest, " Come to Me ; 
 And where I am, there shall My servants be." 
 Thou sayest to us, " Come." 
 
100 A Song which None but 
 
 A SONG WHICH NONE BUT THE 
 REDEEMED CAN SING 
 
 WE came not in with broad 
 Full canvas swelling to a steady breeze, 
 
 With pennons flying fair, with coflfers stored ; 
 For long against the wind, 'mid heavy 
 seas, 
 
 With cordage strained and splintered masts, 
 we drave ; 
 
 And o'er our decks had dashed the bitter 
 wave. 
 
 And lightening oft our lading, life to save, 
 
 Our costly ventures to the Deep were given. 
 
 Yea, some of us were caught, and homewards 
 driven 
 
 Upon the storm-wind's wings, and some rock- 
 riven 
 
 Among the treacherous reefs at anchor flung. 
 
 Felt the good ship break under them, and 
 clung 
 
 Still to some plank or fragment of its frame 
 
 Amid the roaring breakers, — Yet we came. 
 
the Redeemed can Sing loi 
 
 We came not in with proud, 
 Firm, martial footstep in a measured tread 
 Slow pacing to the crash of music loud ; 
 No gorgeous trophies went before, no crowd 
 
 Of captives followed us with drooping head, 
 No shining laurel sceptred us, nor crowned, 
 Nor with its leaf our glittering lances bound ; 
 
 This looks not like a Triumph, then they said. 
 With faces darkened in the battle flame, 
 
 With banners faded from their early pride, 
 Through wind and sun and showers of bleach- 
 ing rain, 
 
 Yet red in all our garments, doubly dyed. 
 With many a wound upon us, many a stain, 
 Wecame with steps thatfaltered, — Yetwe came! 
 
 Through water and through fire 
 We came to Thee, and not through these alone. 
 We came to Thee by blood. Thou didst require 
 
 One only sacrifice, and like Thine own. 
 The Ufe Thou gavest us Thou didst desire, 
 
 And all was ready for us. Lo, the knife 
 And cloven wood were waiting ; bound or free 
 
 We too were ready ! In the battle strife 
 Or by the lonely altar, unto Thee 
 
 We offered love for love, and life for life ; 
 
102 A Song the Redeemed Sing 
 
 Through swords, through seas, o'er sands of 
 
 burning flame 
 We came to Thee ! through toil and pain and 
 
 loss ; 
 Yea, all things failed us but the steadfast cross, 
 And hearts that clave to it while grief and 
 
 shame 
 Still followed where we followed, — Yet we 
 
 came ! 
 
Ill 
 
 The Soul's Legend 
 ir&ijjpcRux'.sTATaaSI 
 
A MYSTERY 
 
 nnHEY played of old within a garden ; the 
 -*- beautiful child and her companion, who 
 was nobler and more beloved than she. 
 
 I know not of her race or lineage, but he was 
 the son of a mighty King. 
 
 His, too, were the strength and the wisdom, 
 therefore he owed her the more tender love. 
 
 For she was framed to listen to, and to be 
 lured by all things. She would eat of the wild, 
 harsh berry, and sport with the glittering 
 snake. 
 
 And when she ran, she would often stumble ; 
 yet her fall was among grass and flowers, and 
 the earth whereon she fell lightly, itself helped 
 her to rise. 
 
 It loved her, for she belonged to it : a happy 
 child ! the nursling of earth's warm bosom, 
 beloved by the Chosen of Heaven. 
 
lo6 A Mystery 
 
 How came it that she was lured from the 
 blissful garden? Is there other love beside 
 that which is of Heaven and of Earth ? 
 
 A love which is dark and secret, which 
 preys upon that which it cannot win ? 
 
 Or was their love but hatred for him who 
 loved her ? Him, who dwelt with one whom 
 no foe can reach ; 
 
 So that when they sharpened their keenest 
 arrow they could only wound him through her 
 breast ; 
 
 And he, beneath the cedar's thick pavilion, 
 knew that his beloved dwelt among a fierce 
 and outcast tribe ; 
 
 And from afar he saw her grinding at their 
 mills, and from afar he saw her lead their 
 midnight dance. 
 
 She was now their toiling drudge : now was 
 she their minion and their queen ; she was 
 always their thrall and bond-slave. 
 
 She wandered with them over many lands ; 
 they gave her to eat of a sweet and maddening 
 root. 
 
 They taught her the secret of their spells and 
 death-snares, until, being weaker, she became 
 more vile than they : 
 
A Mystery 107 
 
 The interpretress of their dreams of evil ; and 
 the earth, because it loved her, helped her and 
 clave unto her still. 
 
 And to her the fierce whoop of battle, the 
 wild dance upon the withered heath, 
 
 The warm dusk gloom of the wigwam, the 
 powwow's drowsy chant, seemed more sweet 
 than had been to her the garden. She said, 
 " I will return to it no more." 
 
 Yet sometimes in the night's deep silence, 
 when the wind brought on it the odour of the 
 cedar, a thrill would pass across her darkened 
 heart. 
 
 Then would she answer her brother softly, 
 
 and her songs were only less sweet than his 
 
 own. 
 
 Part II 
 
 The forest was dark at noon-day ; the wild 
 beasts came forth from their lairs ; 
 
 But not as they come forth at midnight, 
 when the wood wakes to life and tumult ; all 
 was silent as the grave ; 
 
 Only from the distance was a crash heard, as 
 of a giant tree that fell. 
 
 And in the heart of the gloomy forest, where 
 the pine-boughs cast their thickest shade, 
 
io8 A Mystery 
 
 A red light shone and flickered, like the 
 gleaming of a cruel eye ; 
 
 Where the fires of death were kindled, dark 
 forms flitted round an open space. 
 
 In the midst of it was a captive bound to a 
 stake ; the young braves taunted him in their 
 songs. 
 
 I know not if he saw their fierce gestures, or 
 heard their loud insulting cries. 
 
 He had been, like them, a warrior ; yet he 
 was silent : it was not of them he thought. 
 
 And through the dull clamour of the 
 tombs, the fierce roll and beat of the 
 drums, 
 
 He stood, without word or movement. The 
 Fleka dance began. 
 
 Swift and stealthy were the movements of the 
 dancers, hke the weaving of a muttered charm : 
 
 It wove round him in mazy circles, that drew 
 ever more close and close ; 
 
 Like the winding coil of a serpent, that 
 tightens before it strikes. 
 
 And she who led it was a woman, strangely 
 and richly clad. 
 
 The air was dark with arrows, when suddenly 
 one flashed forth, 
 
A Mystery 109 
 
 That was buried in the captive's breast. I 
 know not from whose hand it came. 
 
 And at that moment his eye met hers ; long 
 sought for, and found at last. 
 
 In his look was no rebuke nor question : it 
 left her not while life remained ; 
 
 Nor did it change in its steadfast meaning ; 
 it had but one word to say. 
 
 " Thou," it said to her, and " thou '' she an- 
 swered. She, too, had no other word to speak. 
 
 She thought not of the cruel arrow ; she re- 
 membered not that she stood among his foes. 
 
 Her gaze was, like his unshrinking. How 
 shall I speak of what their look told ? 
 
 None like it hath been exchanged between 
 earth and heaven. It was recognition, and 
 therefore love. 
 
 Part III 
 
 " Oh, that I might look on him whom I have 
 pierced ! that I might see his face once more ! 
 
 For when the arrow sank into the heart of 
 my beloved, then did it cleave through my own. 
 
 And when he died, I knew that I loved him. 
 I knew myself worthy of his love. 
 
 And now will I arise and look upon his face ; 
 he will not remember mine. 
 
no A Mystery 
 
 For days have passed over me, and years and 
 ages. I have dwelt in a wild and desert 
 place. 
 
 It is long since we played within the happy 
 garden, long since he looked upon me from the 
 cruel stake. 
 
 Long, too, since he hath sent me any word 
 of greeting ; yet I know that my brother is yet 
 alive." 
 
 Then she arose up with the earliest morning; 
 it was autumn and the woods were still ; 
 
 But as she passed along the green forest 
 tracks swiftly, a single leaf fell, 
 
 A crimson leaf, that dropped upon her bosom 
 hghtly. I saw not from what tree it came. 
 
 And from the bough one only bird sang 
 sweetly, a bird whose breast h^is been marked 
 by fire ; 
 
 The bird who forsakes not, nor is forsaken ; 
 who stays when the rest have flown. 
 
 And as the day drew onwards to the evening, 
 she came forth upon a boundless plain, 
 
 Whereof had been reaped a mighty harvest ; 
 the ground was trodden and bare ; 
 
 Yet I heard no shouting of the reapers, nor 
 saw gleaners carrying home their sheaves ; 
 
A Mystery iii 
 
 But from afar a sound broke upon the still- 
 ness, the clashing of spear and shield ; 
 
 The tramp of a countless multitude, as of 
 men who march in order and array of battle. 
 
 And when she drew near the happy garden, 
 the garden where she had played of old, 
 
 She found herself in a place she knew not, 
 in a place that knew her no more. 
 
 For adown its cool moss-grown walks, and 
 beneath its dark fragrant cedars. 
 
 Moved ranks and ranks of angels, in exercise 
 for glorious war. 
 
 All mailed were they in shining armour, 
 terrible to the eye and heart ; 
 
 And at their head was one who was their 
 prince and leader ; terrible, though not clothed 
 in mail. 
 
 Him to whom she had been minded to send 
 a secret message. But while she mused thereon 
 in thought. 
 
 And lingered beneath the shadow of the 
 cedar, a sudden light sprung forth. 
 
 That searched through and through the garden 
 like a keen insatiate arrow. 
 
 Light fell within the rose's heart from the 
 red flushing of the evening sky. 
 
112 A Mystery 
 
 It bloomed blood-red against the darkening 
 cedar-bough ; the lilies stood up in flame ; 
 
 Even the marigold looked no longer friendly ; 
 it was orbed and rayed with fire. 
 
 From the weapons and the armour of the 
 angels flashed lines of intolerable light. 
 
 She found no place to flee unto ; no place 
 save her brother's heart. 
 
 She fled onwards swiftly to meet him ; 
 swiftly he came forward unto her. 
 
 He spake to her no word of greeting, but 
 folded her to his kingly breast. 
 
 She clasped her wasted arms about him so 
 closely that his wound brake forth, 
 
 And his blood was sprinked on her raiment ; 
 it became shining even like his own. 
 
 Like ins, too, became her mien and aspect. 
 I know that they will part no more. 
 
Desolate, but not Forsaken 113 
 
 DESOLATE, BUT NOT FORSAKEN 
 
 This poem is suggested by Kenan's picture (see 
 "Les Ap6tres") of the sudden rise of the female 
 character, so deeply lowered by Paganism, to the 
 new and ennobling relations in which it was placed 
 by the first preaching of the Gospel, through the 
 recognition Womanhood receives in Christ. 
 
 ri^HEY sat together over the embers of a 
 -*- decaying fire, in a cavern in the depths of 
 the wild forests of a western land, 
 
 An aged and woe- worn woman, and a man 
 who was also old ; 
 
 But his face was mild and peaceful ; its look 
 was the look of one who hath been greatly 
 beloved ; 
 
 While hers was like a volume shut and clasped ; 
 a book that one would fear to open ; that 
 hath some dark secret hid between its leaves. 
 
 Her eyes were dim and restless, and in them 
 was an endless search, a question that expects 
 no answer. 
 
 And when her gaze ceased to wander, it 
 
114 Desolate, but not Forsaken 
 
 seemed fixed on some far distant object , she 
 looked through the cave's low opening into the 
 dark forest gulf beyond ; she gazed, but saw 
 nothing. 
 
 The air of the cavern was thick and stifling, 
 heavy with some slumberous spell ; 
 
 Through its entrance, as the wild autumn 
 wind swept by, came a whirl and drift of 
 withered leaves ; 
 
 While among them, from time to time, was 
 a short, quick rustling heard. 
 
 The cave was bare and desolate ; but Want 
 was not its only occupant. 
 
 From the walls came a glint and presage, a 
 murderous gleam and flicker, the flash of the 
 hatchet that hung there with the crooked knife 
 of war ; 
 
 On the floor lay arrows stored in sheaves, 
 mixed with herbs in bundles, with gourds also 
 and calabashes, and bowls strangely charactered, 
 filled with costly gums. 
 
 The tears and life-blood shed by many a giant 
 of the forest, but not gathered there for healing 
 or for balm. 
 
 He spoke to her in many words, in a low and 
 pleading voice ; 
 
Desolate, but not Forsaken ii^ 
 
 But her replies were brief and careless ; they 
 were spoken without change of tone. 
 
 " These are goodly things whereof thou 
 tellest me; thy saga is a brave one, but I 
 believe it not. 
 
 When our young men fast, have they not 
 also dreams ? and our old men, do they not 
 see visions ? myself am one who can divine ! 
 
 And if I were indeed, as thou sayest, the 
 daughter of a chief so mighty, how came I, as 
 an infant, to be abandoned by all ? 
 
 If I were lost, it were strange that I were so 
 long unsought for ; and if I were forsaken by 
 my father, then is it I who have to forgive." 
 
 And as she spake these words her brow 
 darkened, and the red brands fell from the dying 
 fire. 
 
 She was silent, and her companion spake not. 
 Who would reply to the words of one who is so 
 desperate ? to speech that is even as the wind ? 
 
 And he with whom she talked was a chosen 
 messenger, one who seeing many things ob- 
 serves them not. 
 
 As the fire-light sank yet lower, he looked 
 upon her long and fixedly ; and in his eye there 
 was no rebuke. 
 
 K 
 
Ii6 Desolate, but not Forsaken 
 
 " When I listen," he said, " to thy voice, I 
 hear not the words thou speakest. 
 
 For it minds me, and thy features mind me, 
 of one whom I toved best of all. 
 
 And now I know that thou art indeed his 
 sister ; her whom he hath sent me forth to seek." 
 
 " Have I, then," she said scornfully, " also a 
 brother ? and doth he, like my father, love me 
 well? 
 
 Thou are truly a bringer of tidings ; for I 
 knew not that in earth or heaven 
 
 There were any found to love me, now, or 
 even in days long past. 
 
 When I was indeed the gay Malinchi of the 
 tribe among whom I dwell ; 
 
 When I wore the embroidered tilma, the rich 
 manta bordered with costly fur ; 
 
 When I led for them the war-dance of the 
 arrow, bells swung with the swaying of my 
 robe : 
 
 Then would they listen to my songs at even- 
 ing. The chiefs praised me, the young braves 
 stood silent round. 
 
 And now they hold me in derision. Yet, 
 although they know it not, I am still their 
 queen. 
 
Desolate, but not Forsaken 117 
 
 For when they cast me off as undelighting, I 
 found I was not spurned by all. 
 
 In the forest were many voices, and beckon- 
 ing hands held forth. 
 
 Canst thou number the dark pines around 
 us ? Where the trees are thickest, there is ever 
 one other near. 
 
 I know not the Father whereof thou speak- 
 est ; but our Mother is doubtless a mighty one. 
 
 I listened to her when none were by to 
 hearken to us ; she taught me the secret of her 
 power ; 
 
 So that he who would win love still comes 
 to me, and he also who hath made a league 
 with hate. 
 
 And to those who have made a covenant with 
 death, I can send it on a silent sunbeam. 
 
 For many are they that work with me ; and 
 even the white innocent flowers 
 
 Have yielded up the secret of their souls, not 
 less deadly than that beneath the serpent's 
 fang." 
 
 "These things," he answered, "may be even 
 as thou sayest, and thou be evil, as thou dost 
 deem thyself to be. 
 
 I know not the lore whereof thou speakest, 
 
ii8 Desolate, but not Forsaken 
 
 neither of the wrong which thou hast suffered 
 or hast wrought ; 
 
 For I was not instructed to judge thee ; I 
 have only a message to give 
 
 From thy brother, who came forth to seek 
 thee ; who was stolen, was sold, and was slain. 
 
 It was on thee he thought when he was 
 dying ; and behold he hath sent thee a ring. 
 
 To be unto thee a sure token : it is graven 
 with his name and thine. 
 
 Thou speakest of spells and of secrets, but 
 with him is one more mighty. 
 
 He bid me tell thee that he hath redeemed 
 thee upon the tree under which ye played of 
 old." 
 
 Then she said, "Now do I well remember 
 the garden, and the fourfold stream, 
 
 The vine-bough with its heavy cluster, and 
 the apples' goodly scent. 
 
 I have surely heard the voices of my father 
 and my brother in the woods at eve. 
 
 But the noises in the forest are many, I knew 
 not what words they spake. 
 
 But now that thou hast given me his message 
 plainly, I will go to my brother who hast sought 
 for me. 
 
Desolate, but not Forsaken 119 
 
 It is he who will lead me back uuto my 
 father — the father whom he hath never 
 left." 
 
 Then she rose up and prophesied ; the dark 
 cavern was fiUed with light, 
 
 So that her companion marvelled greatly. 
 Was this she who had crouched over the dying 
 fire? 
 
 She said, " Who are these with the evening 
 that come flying, even as the doves ? 
 
 Their wings are swift and open ; they cleave 
 the air as with oars of flame. 
 
 I hear a quick, joyfttl rustling. Oh, do ye 
 come all at once. 
 
 Sweet friends, by whom I have been so long 
 deserted ? love, trust, fair joy, and hope ! 
 
 Come, then, to my home, and fear not ; 
 though this cavern be dark and low. 
 
 Though this heart is cold and ruined, unmeet 
 for such gentle guests. 
 
 Ye are used to build among ruins ; at your 
 song the desert blooms ; 
 
 When ye spread forth your radiant plumage, 
 the serpent's coil unwinds ; 
 
 And my soul rushes free to meet you, for it 
 also is winged and plumed. 
 
120 Desolate, but not Forsaken 
 
 Long hath it lain unregarded, among things 
 broken, defaced, outworn ; 
 
 But now shall it shine as doth the silver, and 
 its feathers be even as the gold ! 
 
 And at the close of the darkening evening, 
 at the fall of the dying year. 
 
 Its voice shall be heard among the wood- 
 lands; its moan shall be more sweet than 
 song." 
 
 October 10, 1870. 
 
Christus et Ecclesia 121 
 
 CHRISTUS ET ECCLESIA 
 
 L'bnvoi 
 
 'OPOUSALS of death and love, 
 
 '^ My Lord, were thine. For thee, thy 
 
 mother earth 
 Long waited, sad and patient till thy birth. 
 Barren of all save anguish, loss, and strife. 
 Although the nurse and mother of all life ; 
 And when with heart elate through joy and 
 
 pride 
 She brought thee to thy fair affianced bride. 
 Thee on the threshold found 
 She fallen ! sad and free 
 Thy bride was left, yet bound 
 For evermore to thee ! 
 Thy mother mourns for thee ; she mourns and 
 
 raves, 
 And lifts for thee a voice of loud lament 
 Through all her woods, and on her winds and 
 
 waves 
 Fraught with wild wail and awful wonderment ; 
 
122 Christus et Ecclesia 
 
 And hers are sighs through hollow hemlocks 
 
 sent, 
 And grasses on the dreary uplands bent ; 
 But the sad bride is silent ; far apart 
 She moves, as one who knows her lot is hard ; 
 Thy mother folds her never to her heart ; 
 Her life is hid in thine ; her way is barred ; 
 Her end foreseen ; she knoweth she must die 
 Ere she can come to her beloved nigh. 
 
 Part I 
 
 I sing a song, ancient and pitiful, the wonder 
 of earth and heaven. 
 
 Of two lovers, affianced before the worlds 
 were made, who could only be united through 
 death. 
 
 Fair are they in each other's sight, and joyful 
 in their hour of meeting ; but the day of their 
 espousals is bitter. 
 
 And if ye ask me to unfold these marvels, I 
 answer, I was not by when the threads were spun 
 
 Which weave unseen theii* meshes between 
 hades and heaven and earth. 
 
 I know not why she, beloved by one so 
 mighty, was abject; why he, the Lord of all 
 things, was suffering and opprest. 
 
Christus et Ecclesia 123 
 
 I know not why his life was painful and his 
 death so full of shame ; I only know that it 
 was for her he endured both life and death. 
 
 And for her truly he died once ; but how 
 often hath she died for him ? 
 
 For his sake she died to all things that make 
 life lovely ; yea, even unto love itself. 
 
 And if hers was the glory of the union, had 
 she indeed all the gain ? 
 
 Is it well with the rough frieze frayed and 
 fretted with the costly inwrought thread of 
 gold? 
 
 With the frail jar of porcelain in which an 
 acorn lies buried; with the soul that travails 
 with a mighty incessant birth ? 
 
 Is it well with the life that is dear unto one 
 far distant, and hated by the many who are 
 near ? 
 
 She lived unbeloved by the mother who bare 
 her ; her brethren were full of guile ; 
 
 Their words to her were now harsh, now 
 mocking ; they brooked not that she should be 
 their queen. 
 
 Dark secrets and spells were round her, 
 mystery, and bondage, and fear. When she 
 plucked the white woodland flower. 
 
124 Christus et Ecclesia 
 
 A groan went through the crowded forest, 
 which said, Thou hast torn out thy mother's 
 heart ; 
 
 So that, wounded by the thorn and brier, 
 she became like unto them she dwelt with ; 
 one grieving and causing grief. 
 
 She disdained the little sister who alone loved 
 her ; the sister whom it was given her to rear. 
 
 She was proud ; for though she seemed for- 
 saken, she knew she was beloved by a king. 
 
 And she had listened to the voice of charmers, 
 who told her that she could not err ; 
 
 Till she, who had only learnt to walk through 
 falling, who spoke ever with a stammering 
 tongue. 
 
 Had said, " My footsteps are unerring ; when 
 I speak there is none who can gainsay. 
 
 I deceive not, nor can any deceive me." 
 Yet who hath so oft wandered, who been so 
 oft beguiled as she ? 
 
 Yet was she beloved in all her wanderings, 
 beloved and watched over from afar. 
 
 And I top loved this woman, and followed 
 her through every change ; 
 
 For I saw that she of all beings created alone 
 had learnt to love. 
 
Christus et Ecclesia 125 
 
 And her song was sweeter to me than that 
 of the bird, her smile dearer than the spring's 
 first opening flower. 
 
 I mourned when I saw her wander ; for her 
 I pleaded and wept. 
 
 Part II 
 
 And a time passed over the woman, a time, 
 and a wondrous change. 
 
 For I saw her who had strayed in the dim 
 forest, who had hidden in the darksome cave ; 
 
 Whom the wild beasts of the wood had pitied, 
 whom the wild fruits of the wood had fed ; 
 
 Wrap round her in careless splendour the 
 purple to which she was not born ; 
 
 A robe inwrought with gold and scarlet, a 
 seamless yet not a stainless robe ; 
 
 Her feet that had been bare and bleeding trod 
 now upon the necks of kings. 
 
 Her lords were they, and yet her vassals ; she 
 ruled over them by many spells. 
 
 For she could both frown and flatter; she 
 was their queen, their mistress, their slave. 
 
 She gave them drink of the wine of her en- 
 chantments, full mixed, and poured from a cup 
 of gold. 
 
126 Christus et Ecclesia 
 
 She flung withiu it a pearl most precious, 
 wherewith the whole world had been too dearly 
 bought. 
 
 And in it, too, was mingled the life-blood of 
 a heavenly and of a human vine. 
 
 She spared not for the crushing of the grape, 
 its warm tendril, nor its fragrant shoot ; 
 
 When she needed her balms and odours, the 
 trees of the forest wept. 
 
 Nor took she any thought for their wounding, 
 for she trafficked in costly wares. 
 
 Ivory, and amber, and coral, the persons and 
 souls of men. 
 
 Her rowers brought her into deep waters; 
 their oars flashed silver to the sun. 
 
 For her, too, wrought many craftsmen ; the 
 heavy hammer fell 
 
 So loud, that one might scarce hear beneath 
 it the beat of either pulse or heart ; 
 
 But where she came, stiU followed the clink 
 of an unseen chain. 
 
 She spake fair unto him she hated, unto him 
 who hated her sore. 
 
 For he who had known how to draw 
 after him the third part of the stars of 
 heaven. 
 
Christus et Ecclesia 127 
 
 Knew what was among them written of the 
 Woman and of her Seed. 
 
 And the Dragon hated the Woman ; yet oft 
 did I behold them as friends. 
 
 And when I looked thereon, I marvelled ; I 
 marvelled, but I loved her still. 
 
 For she was alone and sorrowful ; of her sons 
 there were none to guide her. 
 
 And ofttimes would she rise up hastily ; she 
 fled into the wilderness, she east aside her 
 ornaments of gold, 
 
 And spake of him whom she alone loved, and 
 said, " I am a widow, and no queen ! " 
 
 And for her I mourned exceedingly ; for her 
 I pleaded and wept, 
 
 That for her there might yet be found on high 
 a Watcher and a Holy One prevailing, 
 
 And for her, among the tender grass, a Root 
 still wet with the dews of heaven. 
 
 Part III 
 
 Yet once again I looked upon this woman, in 
 a time that is yet to come. 
 
 It was given unto me to see her, because I 
 had loved her well. 
 
 I saw her in a time when it grew towards 
 
128 Christus et Ecclesia 
 
 evening, and the light lay low upon the 
 hills, 
 
 In a valley which was wide and desert, beside 
 a river unfed by any stream. 
 
 Unfed was that river, but ever feeding; it 
 brought with it the wealth it caused. 
 
 For though its banks were even like the 
 emerald, beyond them stretched the desert 
 sands. 
 
 But close by the side of the woman sprung 
 up an ever-springing well. 
 
 Over-arched by a lofty palm-tree, and 
 bordered by the flowering rush ; 
 
 And a slender rill flowed from it, whereat a 
 wolf lapped even as he ran. 
 
 A lion lay couchant near, beside him were 
 three small white loaves. 
 
 And I saw that a time had passed over the 
 woman, a time and a wondrous change ; 
 
 For she was brown and furrowed as the 
 desert round her, and her attire was poor and 
 mean; 
 
 Grey hairs were upon her, but she regarded 
 them not, for by her side walked one who was 
 young. 
 
 And his apparel was soft and delicate, such 
 
Christus et Ecclesia 129 
 
 as is worn by the dwellers in the houses of 
 kings. 
 
 Yet she was in his eyes as one who found 
 favour; he had said unto her, "Thou art all 
 fair." 
 
 She spoke unto him in many words, but it 
 was only given me to hear a few — 
 
 " Culpa mea, mea maxima culpa, maxissima culpa 
 mea." 
 
 Often had these words been spoken in her 
 ear, in many a secret and solitary place ; 
 
 But now that she had taken them upon her 
 lips, they were sweeter to him than her sweetest 
 song; 
 
 More costly than had been her bitterest tear ; 
 more precious than the life-blood she had given 
 for him of old. 
 
 And he whom she had ever loved heard her. 
 He spake unto her good and comfortable words. 
 
 She went up from the wilderness leaning on 
 her beloved ; and I knew that they would part 
 no more. 
 
IV 
 Camera Obscura 
 
 131 
 
To My Friend 
 MARY ELIZABETH M'CHESNEY 
 
 (in 1865) 
 
 rriHE pathway to my heart by few 
 -*- Is sought, to few that pathway known, 
 So deep a thicket round it sown. 
 With grass and moss and weeds o'ergrown 
 The path itself, half hid from sight. 
 And hadst thou come with knocking light 
 Or loud, then from my windows Pain 
 Had looked, a dreary chatelaine, 
 And bid thee from the house, unmeet 
 So bright a guest to entertain. 
 
 But thou, with shy misgiving sweet. 
 Upon the threshold for awhile 
 Didst pause, and then with footstep fleet. 
 And ready, gay, victorious smile. 
 
134 To My Friend 
 
 As one unused to plead or sue, 
 Didst lightly cross it o'er, made bold 
 By love, and like the Greek of old 
 Sat down beside my hearth, and there 
 I found thee seated, kind and fair, 
 To all around thee giying grace. 
 As one that takes a wonted place. 
 Nor causeth toil, nor bringeth care. 
 
 Then stay, dear friend, and be thou free 
 Of all my hospitality ! 
 And doubt not I for thee shall find 
 Some leaf, some blossom, left behind. 
 Some bloom evanishing, some tone 
 That love and joy will not disown, 
 Some amber rosary of fair 
 Warm-scented beads, whereon a prayer 
 Yet lingers, or some amulet 
 Enshrouded in a golden fret ; 
 And from my lute a strain shall flow, 
 And in my heart a flower will blow 
 From out life's very ashes kissed 
 To life by thee, sweet alchemist ! 
 
Demeter and Cora 135 
 
 DEMETER AND CORA 
 
 " O PEAK, daughter, speak ; art speaking 
 
 ^ now ? " 
 "Seek, mother, seek; art seeking thou 
 Thy dear-loved Cora ? " " Daughter sweet, 
 I bend unto the earth my ear 
 To catch the sound of coming feet ; 
 I listen long, but only hear 
 The deep, dark waters running clear." 
 " Oh ! my great mother, now the heat 
 Of thy strong heart in thickened beat 
 Hath reached thy Cora in her gloom, 
 Is't well with thee, my mother, — tell ? " 
 " Is't well with thee, my daughter ? " " Well 
 Or ill I know not ; I through fate 
 Queen of a wide unmeasured tomb 
 Know not if it be love or hate 
 That holds me fast, but I am bound 
 For ever ! What if I am found 
 Of thee, my mother, still the bars 
 Are round me, and the girdling night 
 
136 Demeter and Cora 
 
 Hath passed within my soul. The stars 
 
 Have risen on me, but the light 
 
 Hath gone for ever." "Daughter, tell. 
 
 Doth thy dark lord, the King of Hell, 
 
 Still love thee ? " " Oh, too well, too well 
 
 He loves ! he binds with unwrought chain. 
 
 I was not born to be thy mate, 
 
 Aides ! nor the Queen of pain : 
 
 T was thy daughter Cora, vowed 
 
 To gladness in thy world above, 
 
 I loved the daffodil, love 
 
 All lovely, free and gentle things 
 
 Beloved of thee. A sound of wings 
 
 Is with me in captivity 
 
 Of birds, and bees, with her that sings 
 
 The shrill Cicala, ever gay 
 
 In noon's white heat." "But, daughter, 
 
 say 
 Dost love Aides ? " " Now, too bold 
 Thy question, mother ; this be told, 
 I leave him not for love, for gold ; 
 One lot we share, one life we know. 
 The Lord is he of wealth and rest. 
 As well as king of death and pain ; 
 He folds me to a kingly breast. 
 He yields to me a rich domain. 
 
Demeter and Cora 137 
 
 I leave him not for aught above, 
 
 For any God's unsteadfast love 
 
 Or fairest mortal form below ; 
 
 Thou hast left heaven for earth ; and thou 
 
 For thy poor Cora's sake, self-driven, 
 
 Hast fled its sunny heights in scorn 
 
 And hate, of Zeus unforgiven ! 
 
 Do mortals love thee ? " " Daughter, yea. 
 
 They call me their great mother. Corn 
 
 And wine I give them when they pray ; 
 
 Their love for me their little day 
 
 Of life lasts out ; perchance they knew 
 
 It was not love for them that drew 
 
 Me down to wander where the vine 
 
 Is sweet to me, and breath of kine. 
 
 Art listening now, my Cora dear ? 
 
 Art listening now, my child, — art near ? 
 
 Oh that thy kiss upon my cheek 
 
 Were warm ! thy little hand in mine 
 
 Once more ! Yet, let me hear thee speak, 
 
 And tell me of that garden rare, 
 
 And of thy flowers, dark, fiery, sweet. 
 
 That never breathe the upper air." 
 
 " Oh, mother, they are fair, are fair ; 
 
 Large-leaved are they, large-blossomed, frail. 
 
 And beautiful. No vexing gale 
 
138 Demeter and Cora 
 
 Comes ever nigh them ; fed with fire 
 They kindle in a torch-like flame 
 Half ecstasy, half tender shame 
 Of bloom that must so soon expire. 
 But, mother, tell me of the wet, 
 Cool primrose ! of the lilac-bough 
 And its warm gust of rapture, met 
 In summer days, — art listening yet ? " 
 "Art near me, my Cora, now ? " 
 
The Little Companions 139 
 
 THE LITTLE COMPANIONS 
 
 TT^VEN as a child, I spent many days in a 
 -*-' darkened chamber ; but I was happy, for 
 one that I loved was there. 
 
 In the afternoon of winter we played to- 
 gether, in the warm hearth-light, long silent 
 games that did not disturb those that sat 
 around. 
 
 And as the evening darkened we grew still 
 more quiet : we hoped that they might perhaps 
 forget to tell us it was time for bed. 
 
 Intent and breathless, we built up mighty 
 cities, or marshalled the tread of endless 
 caravans ; we knew not whether we played or 
 dreamed while we sailed together over bound- 
 less seas, or traversed the desert's interminable 
 sands ; yet felt around us, like the grasp of a 
 strong, protecting arm, the steadfast light of 
 the warm parlour, the crimson of the carpet on 
 which we played, the curtains shutting out the 
 night. 
 
 Then, in a low and earnest voice, I would 
 
140 The Little Companions 
 
 tell my companion the stories I used to read. 
 Of Moorish Princesses in their enchanted sleep ; 
 of treasure hid by pirates, locked and guarded 
 by spells of terror in islands of the Spanish 
 main. 
 
 While he would talk to me about his tasks 
 and sports ; of school and comrades there. 
 
 My companion was a bold and merry boy ; 
 he played at games which I only knew by 
 name. He had been to places I had only 
 heard of ; he had seen the minster at the dis- 
 tant town. 
 
 He knew every bend of the little river, the 
 dark pools where the trout lay quiet, and the 
 minnows flashed and gleamed. 
 
 He could tell me all about the dwellers at 
 each lonely farm upon the hill-side, and had 
 been upon the dark moors beyond. 
 
 Yet through the summer we played still 
 together, under the old sycamore that grew 
 upon the little sunny hill. 
 
 We played in the garden, and in the farm- 
 yard ; we looked together down the grass- 
 grown lane. Together we hung upon the 
 swinging gate; we waited to hear the carts 
 come creaking home ; to see the horses stepping 
 
The Little Companions 141 
 
 slowly through the mellow sunlight ; the men 
 that walked beside them slowly, and sung out 
 from time to time — 
 
 " Gee hup ! " " Gee Whoa ! Dobbin ! "—we 
 clapped our hands at the welcome sound. 
 
 We knew they would not refuse us anything : 
 they held us on the horses' broad, slippery 
 backs, as we rode them without saddle home. 
 
 When they built up the stacks they let us 
 stand beside them, lifting us, as they mounted 
 higher, in their strong, steady arms. 
 
 There came a day in Autumn when the nuts 
 hung thick and ripe in the woody glens that 
 ran between the hills, and the hazels that over- 
 hung the stream ; 
 
 And all the children went out to gather them ; 
 the day had been talked of long. 
 
 They sought out their oldest clothes to 
 scramble through bush and brier. 
 
 And one little girl, the prettiest and merriest 
 of all, had patched herself a pocket of many 
 colours. This she wore outside to be the 
 readier filled with nuts. 
 
 The children were long in starting ; like bees 
 that are about to swarm. 
 
 They hung and murmured in a cluster ; there 
 
142 The Little Companions 
 
 was always something either remembered or 
 forgot. 
 
 At last they set forth in triumph; I went 
 with them as far as the gate. 
 
 I looked after them till they were hid by the 
 bending of the lane. They turned to shout me a 
 loud good-bye. 
 
 The little girl waved her handkerchief, but 
 my companion did not look round. 
 
 I climbed on the gate to watch them ; they 
 were speedily across the brook. 
 
 I saw them spread and scatter over the hill- 
 side ; every now and then they were lost to 
 view, 
 
 When they dipped within the coppices of 
 birch and alder, that were purpled in spring 
 with the hyacinths' tender and misty bloom. 
 
 At last they reached the great oak-wood. 
 I saw them pass one by one within it; their 
 voices died one by one away. 
 
 On my way home I went into the garden. 
 All within it was still and dreamlike. 
 
 The sunflowers held up their broad, flashing 
 shields ; the hollyhocks stood erect like guards 
 and warders. The bright asters, the red 
 verbenas, the dark tawny marigold, blazed in 
 
The Little Companions 143 
 
 the heat of noon. The garden looked gay yet 
 desolate, as if the heart within it, even while it 
 slumbered, ached. 
 
 A ripe peach had dropped from the wall, and 
 rolled into the bed of mignonette beneath. I 
 did not stoop to pick it up. 
 
 And as I passed the little border I called my 
 own, I saw that the clove-carnation had burst 
 its sheath. 
 
 I thought it would be less solitary in the 
 farmyard; there would be the cooing and 
 fluttering of pigeons, and I should hear the 
 whirl of the thresher's flail. 
 
 It too was broad and sunny in the noonday, 
 full of yellow, floating light, and the warm 
 pleasant scent of the straw. Yet I thought it 
 looked more lonely, even than the garden ; 
 when suddenly from behind the biggest stack, 
 my little companion jumped out and stood 
 before me, saying, with a merry laugh, — 
 
 " Aha ! I have given you a fine surprise ! and 
 did you think I had really gone ? " 
 
 We played together till the rest came back ; 
 the summer day was not long. 
 
144 The Homeward Lane 
 
 THE HOMEWARD LANE 
 
 " Siehst du sehr geblasslich aus ? 
 Seyst getrost ! du bist zu Haus.'' — Heine. 
 
 ~\ /TY soul within me yearned 
 -^-^ For home ; not yet appeared 
 The father's house in sight : 
 I saw no kindled light 
 In gleaming window pane, 
 No forms arrayed in white 
 Came forth, yet was I cheered 
 At heart : I knew I neared 
 My home, and kept aright 
 The way. 
 
 My footsteps turned 
 Adown a well-known lane, 
 Lone, quiet ; on each side 
 A grassy margin wide. 
 And hedgerows freshened to the deepened 
 
 stain 
 Left by warm summer rain. 
 
The Homeward Lane 145 
 
 O'er all a sparkle wet ; 
 
 An odour dank and cool 
 
 From Balsam poplars set 
 
 Within the hedge, and yet 
 
 A sunset flash from many a tiny pool. 
 
 Then saw I on a gate 
 
 Two men in garments plain 
 
 That leant, as in the summer evenings late 
 
 Men lean ; of common things 
 
 And themes to dwellers in the country dear, 
 
 If husbandmen or kings, 
 
 They spake, nor ceased their talk as I drew near ; 
 
 But with a quiet smile 
 
 One open held the gate ; 
 
 The other spake, " For thee, I said, long while 
 
 Here would I stand and wait." 
 
 But when I would have turned within, I saw 
 
 A sandy heath forlorn 
 
 That stretched, whereon an aged woman, bent 
 
 With care and toil outworn. 
 
 Stooped down to pluck a small white rose, that 
 
 grew 
 As if it lived with but its leaves to strew 
 The thin, light soil, nor seemed, sunfed, the dew 
 To need, beset with many a grieving thorn ; 
 
146 The Homeward Lane 
 
 But when she, turning, lifted up her head 
 
 I looked upon the face 
 
 Of one long loved by me and with the dead 
 
 Long numbered, there no trace 
 
 Of age or pain I read, 
 
 But in her deep-set eye 
 
 Dwelt untold ecstasy, 
 
 And in her smile was bliss, 
 
 And rapture in her kiss. 
 
 And heaven in her embrace. 
 
The Playmates 147 
 
 THE PLAYMATES 
 
 " The natural man receiveth not the things that 
 be of the Spirit of God, neither indeed can he ; for 
 these two are contrary the one to the other." — 
 St Paul. 
 
 " Then I heard a voice, extremely sweet and clear 
 — the voice of an angel — repeat, John Woolman is 
 deadj and I knew not what these words might 
 signify, seeing that I remained yet in the body ; 
 but the voice continued yet to repeat clearly, John 
 Woolman is dead, then I understood them to refer 
 to the death of my natural will."— John Woolman's 
 " Diary." 
 
 T HAD a playmate sweet and wild, 
 -*- We were born together, I and he, 
 And well did I love him, as youth and as 
 child 
 Oft would we chide and yet still agree. 
 
 Oft would we chide though I loved him well, 
 Then was I told by a stern decree, 
 
 Never could we together dwell, 
 One must perish, I or he ; 
 
 M 
 
148 The Playmates 
 
 Yet was our day together sweet, 
 Yet was our night together dear, 
 
 He was ever the first my step to greet, 
 I loved him absent, I loved him near. 
 
 Our nay was kind, and sweet our yea, 
 
 His doom was from Heaven and not from me, 
 
 Never had I the heart to slay 
 
 My brother that was so dear to me ; 
 
 I saw him fade in a still decay, 
 
 He sank at my side while our youth was glad. 
 And the light from the valley died away, 
 
 And the hills seemed many, and dark, and 
 
 And I find now not though the world be wide, 
 
 I find not any I love so well. 
 And I deem he will run again by my side 
 
 Through some sweet abiding miracle. 
 
 Now there blossoms for me a heavenly vine, 
 And in Heaven is a rose-tree blooming free. 
 
 But the wild sweet briar and the red-berry 
 wine 
 Had been joy enough for him and for me. 
 
The Almond Bough 149 
 
 THE ALMOND BOUGH 
 
 " The almond-tree shall flourish, and desire shall 
 fail." — The Book of Ecclesiastes. 
 
 Written in October 
 
 rMHE wild wind gathers and grows 
 -*- On the moor and the darkening hill, 
 On the river comes and goes 
 
 And creeps a breath that is chill, 
 The moments weary and wound 
 
 No longer, all is still. 
 From the valley comes no sound. 
 
 No footstep along the lane. 
 No hand on the clinking gate. 
 
 No shadow falls on the pane ; 
 I listen not, neither wait. 
 
 My spirit is unelate. 
 I wish not, neither have will. 
 
 Written early in March 1874 
 
 But now through a lofty arch 
 The light clouds drifting flee. 
 
150 The Almond Bough 
 
 The wind is lifting the larch, 
 There is one that asketh for me : 
 
 He is winged with the wind, his feet 
 In the fire have ofttimes trod. 
 
 He is onwards borne by the sweet 
 Fulfilled desire of God ; 
 
 When he moveth he moveth aright, 
 No shadow after him moves, 
 
 His eyes are with flame alight, 
 His smile is the smile that loves. 
 
 He is lithe, he is fleet, his hair 
 On his shoulders falleth free. 
 
 Than the sons of man more fair. 
 He bringeth a gift for me- 
 
 A rod of the almond bough. 
 It is soft, it is fair, it is frail. 
 
 And oft hath it met ere now 
 The scorn of the driving gale ; 
 
 It weareth no shading leaf. 
 It beareth no grieving thorn. 
 
 Its blossom is swift and brief. 
 Its glory is in its morn ; 
 
 It knoweth not how to wait. 
 It lifts to the bitter sky 
 
 Its rose-flush delicate. 
 
The Almond Bough 151 
 
 It knows how to bloom and die ; 
 
 Its fruit is not prized nor rare, 
 Yet it yieldeth a costly seed, 
 
 It is borne by a herald fair. 
 And it sayeth unto me " Speed." 
 
152 Lilies 
 
 LILIES 
 
 "The evening and the morning make our day." 
 
 — E. B. Beowninq. 
 
 T) Y woody walks, near pathways dank 
 
 -^-^ With the drip of the thick-wove boughs 
 
 they grew, 
 By the side of the garlic, wild and rank, 
 
 The valley-lilies, pure as dew. 
 Shrouded and swathed in a tender gleam. 
 
 Gold in the sun, and dim in the shade, 
 Lilies globe-like, and orbed, and rayed. 
 Flashed, afloat on the glittering stream ; 
 Each on its cool, thick leaf apart. 
 
 Flung eager-wide to day's golden dart. 
 As a door will ope with a secret thrill 
 
 To a touch beloved, each warm trembling 
 heart 
 For the light of the morning to flood and fill. 
 
 At mid-day the lilies stood up tall, 
 
 Stood up straight, 'neath the garden wall. 
 
Lilies 153 
 
 White and regal like queens that bear 
 
 Beneath their crowns disconsolate 
 A weight of woe and a world of care, 
 Who are glad when the night bears all away, 
 Yet are ever queens through their long white 
 day, 
 
 Robed and fair and desolate. 
 Golden were some, and some had curled 
 Their leaves back in pride or in scorn of the 
 
 world. 
 And some were tawny and streaked and pied 
 
 And freck'd, as if in them something ill 
 
 Had passed, but had left them lilies still. 
 And after them came a sworded strife 
 Of lilies that warred with death or with life, 
 
 Flushed or pallid with love or hate 
 I know not which, for to living flame 
 
 They changed from their rose-bloom delicate. 
 And strove, so that neither overcame ; 
 
 For as I marvelled thereat, day grew 
 More dim, and the flowers' sweet miracle 
 
 Went by, and a sudden twilight fell, 
 And with it brought to my soul the scent 
 
 Of mossy wood-walks drenched in dew, 
 And of valley-lilies crushed and bent. 
 
154 The Man with Three Friends 
 
 THE MAN WITH THREE FRIENDS 
 
 {A story told in the " Gesta Bomanorum ") 
 
 nnO one full sound and quietly 
 -■- That slept, there came a heavy cry, 
 " Awake ! arise ! for thou hast slain 
 A man." " Yea, have I to my own pain," 
 
 He answered ; " but of ill intent 
 
 And malice am I that naught forecast 
 As is the babe innocent. 
 
 From sudden anger our strife grew, 
 
 I hated not, in times past, 
 Him whom unwittingly I slew." 
 
 " If it be thus indeed, thy case 
 
 Is hard," they said ; " for thou must die. 
 Unless with the Judge thou canst find grace. 
 
 Hast thou, in thine extremity. 
 Friends soothfast for thee to plead ? " 
 
The Man with Three Friends 155 
 
 Then said he,, " I have friends three : 
 
 One ^ whom in word, and will, and deed 
 
 From my youth I have served, and loved before 
 Mine own soul, and for him striven ; 
 To him was all I got given, 
 
 And the longer I lived, I have loved him more. 
 
 And another ^ have I, whom, sooth to tell, 
 
 I love as I love my own heart well ; 
 
 And the third,^ I cannot now call 
 
 To mind that ever loved at all 
 
 He hath been of me, or in aught served ; 
 
 And yet, maybe, he hath well deserved 
 
 That I should love him with the rest. 
 
 Now will I first to the one loved best." 
 Said the first, " And art thou so sore bestead ? 
 See, I have gained of cloth good store. 
 So will I give thee three ells and more 
 (If more thou needest) when thou art dead. 
 To wrap thee. Now hie away from my door ; 
 I have friends many, and little room." 
 
 And the next made answer, weeping sore, 
 " We will go with thee to the place of doom : 
 There must we leave thee evermore." 
 * The world. ^ Wife and children. ^ Christ. 
 
156 The Man with Three Friends 
 
 " Alack," said the man, " and well-a-day ! " 
 
 But the third only answered, " Yea ; " 
 And while the man spake, all to start soon, 
 Knelt down and buckled on his shoon. 
 
 And said, " By thee in the Judgment Hall 
 I will stand, and hear what the Judge decree ; 
 And if it be death, I will die with thee, 
 
 Or for thee, as it may befall." 
 
 „«';&?■*> 
 
 
V 
 Scattered Poems 
 
THE EDELWEISS 
 
 T WAS born in my little shroud, 
 -■- All woolly, warm, and white ; 
 I live in the mist and the cloud, 
 I live for my own delight. 
 
 I see far beneath me crowd 
 
 The Alpine roses red. 
 And the gentian blue, sun-fed. 
 
 That makes the valleys bright. 
 
 I bloom for the eagle's eye, 
 I bloom for the daring hand, 
 
 I live but for God, and I die 
 
 Unto Him, and at His command. 
 
i6o Hay-making 
 
 HAY-MAKING 
 
 1\ /TANY a long, hard-working day 
 -^-^ Life brings us, and many an hour of 
 play. 
 
 But they never come now together. 
 Playing at work, and working at play, 
 As they came to us children among the hay 
 
 In the breath of the warm June weather. 
 
 Oft with our little rakes at play 
 Making believe at making hay, 
 
 With grave and steadfast endeavour ; 
 Caught by an arm, and out of sight 
 Hurled and hidden, and buried light 
 
 In laughter and hay for ever. 
 
 Now pass the hours of work and play 
 With a step more slow, and the summer's day 
 
 Grows short, and more cold the weather. 
 Calm is our work now, and quiet our play ; 
 And we take them apart as best we may, 
 
 For they come no more together. 
 
Going to Bed i6i 
 
 GOING TO BED 
 
 " TT is time to go to bed." 
 
 -*- Oh ! how soon the words are spoken, 
 Oh ! how sweet a spell is broken 
 When these words of fate are said — 
 " It is time to go to bed." 
 Is it time to go to bed ? 
 Surely bed awhile can wait 
 Till the pleasant tale is read 
 At our Father's knee ; how cheery 
 Burns the fire ! we are not weary ; 
 Wliy should it be time for bed 
 Just because the clock strikes eight ? 
 While they talk, let us be hiding 
 Just behind the great arm-chairs ; 
 It may be they will forget us. 
 It may be that they will let us 
 Stay to supper, stay to prayers ; 
 Go at last with them upstairs, 
 Hand in hand, with Father, Mother ; 
 Kisses given, and " good nights ' said, 
 'Twill be time for Sister, Brother, 
 Time for me to go to bed ! 
 
i62 Noah's Ark 
 
 NOAH'S ARK 
 
 niyTANY a story told, 
 
 -^ Earth ! thy tale survives ; 
 In a quiet fold 
 Leading happy lives, 
 Dwell this old world's old 
 Fathers with their wives. 
 
 From the tight-packed box 
 O'er the carpet spread. 
 Oh ! what peaceful flocks 
 In the fire-light red 
 Wandfer, from rude shocks 
 Duly shepherded. 
 
 Loved with equal love. 
 
 Prized with equal care, 
 
 Raven then and Dove ; 
 
 But the dearest there 
 
 Are still the spotted Ladybird 
 
 And the springing Grasshopper. 
 
Noah's Ark 163 
 
 Now does childish play 
 That sweet tale rehearse 
 Told by Prophet grey, 
 Sung in Sybil's verse, 
 Of a Coming Day, 
 Of a vanquished curse. 
 
 See the Cow and Bear 
 
 Together dwell and feed, 
 
 Ox and Lion there 
 
 In sweet peace agreed ; 
 
 Wolf and Lamb one pasture share. 
 
 With a little child to lead. 
 
 N 
 
164 The Castle Garden 
 
 THE CASTLE GARDEN 
 
 T SING beneath the moon, 
 
 -'- I sing at burning noon ; 
 A song of war I sing, a song of love ; 
 
 And all to win her grace. 
 
 And all to see her face 
 Look on me for a moment from above. 
 
 The hills in quiet deep. 
 
 Sleep out their noontide sleep ; 
 The woods are silent, yet within my breast 
 
 Is trouble, and a sound 
 
 Seems rising from the ground 
 To tell of tumult and of old unrest. 
 
 Methinks, the very flowers 
 
 Have instincts of the hours, 
 When here four hundred warriors, each a knight, 
 
 Back from this Border Hold 
 
 Drave Scotland's Lion bold, 
 With glint of steel, and clang of armour bright. 
 
 The scarlet lilies burn 
 Like fiery swords that turn 
 Each way at Eden's gate, and flame and fail 
 
The Castle Garden 165 
 
 As if in angel's hand 
 Each were a vengeful brand 
 That flashed into the air blood-red, death-pale. 
 
 The shining marigold, 
 
 Whose yellow disk hath told 
 The hours in light, shows here a tawny stain, 
 
 As on a dagger's hilt 
 
 A ruddy life-drop spilt. 
 Rusts through long years, a witness stern and 
 plain. 
 
 The latest summer rose, 
 
 Red to its heart-leaf glows ; 
 I know not be its hue of blood, or wine ; 
 
 The passion-flowers frail, 
 
 Would hint at some dark tale 
 As o'er the moulding wall they trail and 
 twine. 
 
 The voice of harp and song 
 
 Hath here been silent long ; 
 Wild echoes of the revel wake not here ; 
 
 Yet, knit within these stones 
 
 Are pangs, wherefore atones 
 No tardy vow, no Hngering penance drear. 
 
i66 The Castle Garden 
 
 Here dwelt a chief, to woo 
 Too proud, too fierce to sue, 
 He took from all what pleased him. Strife 
 and ire ; 
 Blood, steel, and burning flame. 
 Tracked on his steps, and shame 
 That cowered by wasted hearths, with wife, 
 maid, sire. 
 
 O'er him no prayer was said. 
 
 For him no tear was shed. 
 When his dark spirit passed away unshriven. 
 
 Too many tears below. 
 
 His sword had made to flow. 
 That one should plead betwixt his doom and 
 heaven. 
 
 Yet here beneath the moon. 
 
 Yet here at burning noon, 
 I sing my constant song, a song of love ; 
 
 And all to win her grace. 
 
 And all to see her face 
 Look on me for a moment from above. 
 
The Gang-Children 167 
 
 THE GANG-CHILDREN 
 
 {Extract) 
 
 Q< OME things perhaps they miss, 
 '^ That other children see — 
 The evening chat, and the kiss. 
 
 And the ride on daddy's knee ; 
 To be tucked in their little beds 
 
 By a mother's loving care, 
 For at night they lay down their heads 
 
 And sleep — just anywhere. 
 Perhaps they have never heard 
 
 Of Christ or of God, nor could tell 
 Who made them ; not a word 
 
 Can the children read nor spell ; 
 Yet they are not dull nor slow 
 
 Though they've gone to no village school ; 
 There's many a thing they know 
 
 That is not learnt by rule. 
 They play at no little games. 
 
 But they've learnt the wicked song. 
 And with each of earth's nameless shames 
 
 They've been acquainted long. 
 
i68 The Gang-Children 
 
 They've heard no sweet story told, 
 
 By the fire as the shadows fell, 
 But of evil, — new and old, — 
 
 They can give you the chronicle ; 
 For they've learnt, and more quickly too. 
 
 For oaths and for jeers, and for blows, 
 All that the pagan knew, 
 
 All that the savage knows. 
 
 What matter ! the world grows old. 
 
 To toil, and to sin, and to die. 
 Is a story so often told 
 
 It never need make us sigh. 
 What is it ? — a girl and a boy — 
 
 They are poor ; they were never meant 
 To be the light and the joy 
 
 Of the homes to which they were sent. 
 In our nation's mighty schemes. 
 
 In the world's great working plan, 
 There was no room left it seems 
 
 For a woman, or for a man ; 
 Blighted before they are blown. 
 
 Let them sink to the earth like weeds. 
 So long as our crops are grown. 
 
 So long as the sea recedes. 
 
The Gang-Children 169 
 
 " What shall it profit a man," 
 
 Is a saying widely known, 
 " Let him win and gain all he can. 
 
 If he lose his soul, — his own ? " 
 But speed to the giant plough, 
 
 And the harrow that grinds and rolls 
 O'er the broad smooth levels, now 
 
 Over other people's souls. 
 
 Oh ! cruel lords of the soil. 
 
 No wonder your harvests glow 
 With ruddy and golden spoil, 
 
 When the earth is so fat below ; 
 When you joy in your harvest won. 
 
 Do you think of your harvest lost, 
 And hid from the ripening sun ? 
 
 Have you counted up the cost 
 Of the precious seeds forgot. 
 
 Flung in with heedless scorn. 
 In your furrows deep to rot. 
 
 That will not come up with the corn ? 
 Girlhood, wifehood, youth. 
 
 And love, and all that was lent 
 Or given to make heaven a truth. 
 
 And life a sweet content. 
 
170 The Gang-Children 
 
 Manhood, and strength, and joy, 
 The image Divine of God ; 
 
 It is but a girl and a boy 
 Ye have trampled back to the clod ! 
 
 Then look o'er your lordly plains, 
 
 And go to your crowded mart. 
 And when ye tell o'er your gains, 
 
 Fling in many a broken heart. 
 And blighted life, with the aches 
 
 And pangs of a childish frame, 
 With the waste and the loss that makes 
 
 The tale of a woman's shame ; 
 With another cry in the streets. 
 
 And another ruffian jeer. 
 And the laugh one so often meets. 
 
 Far sadder than is the tear. 
 Go ! count up the cost of all 
 
 That fell with the stones that fell. 
 When ye shook down the cottage wall 
 
 To build up the felon's cell ! 
 Go number the weary feet. 
 
 That roam on an aimless track 
 Of ruin and wrong, nor meet 
 
 With aught that can lure them back ; 
 
The Gang-Children 171 
 
 Because they have never known 
 
 What comfort meant since the day 
 That left them nought for their own 
 
 When ye took their homes away. 
 When the little daisy died, 
 
 That the cottage garden grew, 
 Withered a nation's pride, 
 
 With the rosemary, thrift, and rue. 
 Hollow the harvest joy 
 
 Of the land where the reapers mourn ; 
 Where the poor man's girl and his boy 
 
 Count for less than the rich man's corn. 
 
172 Athanasius contra Mundum 
 
 ATHANASIUS CONTRA MUNDUM 
 
 {To the Memory of David Livingstone) 
 
 TTE stood within the wilderness and cried ; 
 -*— "- From hearts innumerable went up a 
 
 groan, 
 But voice was none ; or any that replied ; 
 Not Europe, vowed to lofty prudence, tied 
 To dull convention, colder than a stone ; 
 Not Asia, fierce and fawning, sleek of hide ; 
 
 Nor thou, brute Africa ! a patient, strong, 
 Mute ass, between two burthens couchant long. 
 He stood within the wilderness and cried ; 
 
 Then all at once, as when a mighty tide 
 Hurls a huge wave before it, heaved and rose 
 The world's high heart to battle with its foes. 
 He stayed within the wilderness and died. 
 
Good-night, Good-bye i73 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT, GOOD-BYE 
 
 ^AY not good-bye ! dear friend, from thee 
 '^ A word too sad that word would be. 
 Say not good-bye ! Say but good-night, 
 And say it with thy tender, light. 
 Caressing voice, that links the bliss 
 Of yet another day with this. 
 Say but good-night ! 
 
 Say not good-bye ! say but good-night ; 
 A word that blesses in its flight, 
 In leaving hope of many a kind. 
 Sweet day like this we leave behind. 
 Say but good-night ! Oh never say 
 A word that taketh thee away ! 
 Say but good-night ! 
 Good-night ! 
 
VI 
 
 %onQ& of saltiation 
 
 " 3[ fteltefte in tje forgtftenegjS of gins,"— 2%e Apostles' 
 Creed. 
 
 "%We iSaiti) tie JtgS ana loft^ iJDne tjat tnljaittetl) 
 (Eternity, Sojose name ie i^til^ : 31 Stoell in tje JigJ) anB 
 Jol? place, toiti) Jim aliso tSat ig of a contrite ann jjumhle 
 spirit, to reSiifte tie spirit of tie Jumlile, ana to reftiSie tie 
 Jeart of tje contrite ones."— /saictA Ivii. 15. 
 
" rriHE faintest longing to love, is love ; the very 
 dread to miss for ever the face of God, is 
 love ; the very terror at that dreadful state where 
 none can love, is love. Feelest thou thyself dry, 
 seared, impenitent, bewildered, stupefied, without 
 feeling? — yea, if there be any who can himself 
 scarcely tell what he believes, or whether he be- 
 lieves at all ; let him feel himself abandoned to 
 Satan, unable to distinguish whether blasphemous 
 and impure thoughts be of his own mind or the 
 darts of the Evil One driven through him ; let him 
 be this and all beside which can be imagined miser- 
 able, so that covered with the ulcers of his sins he 
 seem to himself to be all one wound, unbound, un- 
 closed, unsoftenedj a very living death ; yet if he 
 have any longing to be delivered from the body of 
 his death, he has not committed the unpardonable 
 sin. Those around him may say, ' Lord, he stinketh ; ' 
 the heavy stone of earthly sins may lie upon him, 
 and he lie motionless, bound hand and foot with 
 grave-clothes so that he cannot approach unto Jesus, 
 and his eyes wrapped round so that he should not 
 see Him ; yet He whom he cannot seeh may yet seek 
 him; that voice which awakeneth the dead can 
 reach him yet, and he may hear the voice of the 
 Son of God, and, hearing, live." — De Pusey. 
 
 177 
 
INTRODUCTION TO "SONGS OF 
 SALVATION" 
 
 A GAIN we are brought to the foot of the 
 -^-^ Cross, but this time it is in the utmost 
 simplicity of faith. The interest is no longer 
 that of the intellect but of the conscience, and 
 the heart asks neither How ? nor Why ? but 
 kneeling there in penitence it asks only, " May 
 I, can I share? Am I not too bad?" The 
 answer comes, " Son, thy sins be forgiven thee. 
 Go in peace." So true is it that the Lord 
 is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart, 
 and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit. 
 
 A sample of nearly all the evils in the world 
 may be seen on Calvary ; legal justice perverted, 
 blind heartless prejudice winning its own way, 
 a careless multitude going its stupid beaten road 
 to destruction, and a traitor discovered in the 
 inner circle of friendship. Closer to the Cross, 
 
iSo Introduction to 
 
 from the bystanders beneath, come insults and 
 mockery that would tear the dignity from 
 suffering, and there too among the victims we 
 hear the voice of reckless blasphemy that is not 
 to be hushed save by death. What faithful 
 love there is, is shown only in the silent heart- 
 break of despair, and the dark curtain of night 
 drops over all. Not all ; one soul out of that 
 blackest centre of sin and suffering is redeemed 
 for Paradise, and if one is thus saved, why not 
 all? why not I? From a life of crime and 
 from the sense of punishment deserved, from 
 failing strength and the abysses of mortal pain, 
 that soul stretches out its hands to God and 
 even then finds a ready welcome. Deaf to the 
 curses, blind to the shame, insensible for the 
 moment to the suffering, it looks into the eyes 
 of its Redeemer and sees heaven opening. 
 
 Such concentration of experience is possible, 
 and is perhaps more often seen in its full beauty 
 among the less educated. No principles 
 furnished by science, or history, or philosophy, 
 guide their lives, save only the barest working 
 code ; the attention is fixed on the narrow 
 field of the individual life with its hopes and 
 duties, its pleasures and pains. But the sordid 
 
Songs of Salvation i8i 
 
 calm of lives like these can be 'broken and the 
 heart touched by the Divine Spirit, and then 
 the past days and years are seen to be full of 
 " sins, negligences and ignorances," which have 
 grown up into a barrier hard and high between 
 the soul and God. The witness of conscience 
 that in all this we are guilty is plain to hear, 
 and there is no gainsaying its testimony. A 
 man in this condition describes himself un- 
 hesitatingly as "lost," and a lasting despair 
 comes within sight as being the inevitable and 
 right result of the life of selfishness that has 
 been lived. " I am a sinful man, Lord." No 
 excuses are oflFered. Then the eyes of the soul 
 are directed to the crucified Saviour, and He is 
 shown to be the Lamb of God that taketh away 
 the sin of the world. There is nothing for the 
 man to do but to accept His death and to 
 thank Him, to abhor the sin that nailed Him 
 there, and to start a life new, clean, and fresh, 
 under His guidance. It may sound complex, 
 but in practice it is very simple. " Jesus died 
 for me." That to millions has meant and 
 still means pardon free and complete ; it is a 
 receipt in full for the stupendous debt ; it is a 
 crushing load taken off the shoulders and cast 
 
i82 Introduction to 
 
 into the depths of the sea ; it is a snapping of 
 the chains of sin, and an opening of the prison 
 to them that were bound ; it is a wall broken 
 down between the soul and God ; it is a 
 fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness 
 which can never lose its virtue. One illustra- 
 tion is piled on another to try to express the 
 new-found sense of purity and courage, that is 
 yet mingled with tender fear and with a dread 
 of sin never known before. When the Spirit of 
 God is the teacher it is not the reason that is 
 primarily appealed to, but it is the heart that 
 is attracted by the vision of love and goodness, — 
 
 " I am not skilled to understand 
 What God hath willed, what God hath planned ; 
 I only know at His right hand 
 
 Stands one who is my Saviour. 
 I take God at His word and deed, 
 ' Christ died to save me,' this I read, 
 And in my heart I find a need 
 
 Of Him to be my Saviour." 
 
 This is the Atonement in its simplest form. 
 The ideas in it are not wholly new, or the 
 human mind could not understand it. We 
 have all of us, thank God, known some loving 
 soul who willingly bore toil and weariness for 
 the sake of the helpless or the ungrateful, but 
 
Songs of Salvation 183 
 
 here we see the central sun of all these scattered 
 and broken rays. Further, it is not the punish- 
 ment of sin so much as the sin itself from 
 which Christ died to save us. He does not 
 stultify all human ethics by ignoring the bond 
 between sin and death, but honours it to the full, 
 taking its bitter consequences upon Himself. 
 
 " He didn't come to judge the world, He didn't 
 
 come to blame, 
 He didn't only come to seek ; it was to save He 
 
 came ; 
 And when we call Him Saviour, then we call Him 
 
 by His name." 
 
 That is no cant, no hackneyed tale. Miss 
 Greenwell knew what the Durham pit-villages 
 were like ; she was a constant visitor in the 
 jail and also in every ward of the workhouse, 
 and those were the days when workhouses 
 were unreformed and much neglect and cruelty 
 were to be found within their walls. She 
 engaged in that discouraging labour called 
 " rescue-work," and she took up the cause of 
 the deaf and dumb and imbecile, and tried to 
 help every unfortunate creature without excep- 
 tion who came within her reach ; there are 
 plenty of such, and with a sad smile she used 
 to say that " the Great Army of the Beaten in 
 
i84 Introduction to 
 
 Life " seemed to be her special portion. She 
 never gave up hope, and while giving her best 
 effort to prevent new recruits from entering its 
 miserable ranks, she valiantly worked on with 
 its most seasoned veterans. She did not care 
 for distributing tracts, and had a hundred ways 
 of bright human kindliness by which to stir the 
 stiffened soul and atrophied will into desire and 
 courage, but the outworks once won she found 
 (as all the wisest of such reformers do find) that 
 there was only one thing which could take 
 possession of the heart and carry through the 
 labour of renewal in the life, and that was the 
 Gospel of Christ presented in its simplest form. 
 This really did the work, but nothing else was 
 of lasting use. 
 
 Thus it is. The wise and prudent argue, 
 and quite rightly, about the Moral Law and 
 about the only possible way in which God can 
 show, by one deed, hatred of sin and love to 
 man ; those who reason cannot believe or trust or 
 love until reason is in some way satisfied. But 
 the "babes," of whom after all the vast majority 
 of our race consists, inquire into nothing and 
 feel nothing save that there is a way of escape, 
 and that they are pardoned — undeservedly 
 
Songs of Salvation 185 
 
 pardoned, and yet that in future they must lead 
 wholly diflferent lives if they would have Christ 
 to be their friend. Hear the Durham pit-man 
 speaking, — 
 
 " I've got a word like fire in my heart that will not 
 
 let me be, — 
 ' Jesus the Son of God, who loved, and who gave 
 
 Himself for me.' 
 And couldst Thou love such a man as me, my 
 
 Saviour? Then I'lltake 
 More heed to this wandering soul of mine, if its 
 
 only for Thy sake. 
 For it wasn't that I might spend my days just in 
 
 work, and in drink, and in strife, 
 That Jesus the Son of God has given His love and 
 
 has given His life." 
 
 This, however simply understood, is a glimpse 
 of the divine side of the Atonement. The truth 
 rises upon the soul like a sun, the barrier is 
 smitten down, the demand of conscience is 
 satisfied, and the whole being is flooded with 
 joy and with the love of goodness. We have 
 touched the regenerative point. Like human 
 birth it is a mystery, but there is the fact. We 
 can in some degree at least explain both the 
 life before and the life after, but there is a 
 point that is shrouded from criticism that lies 
 Avithin the secret of the tabernacle when the 
 
i86 Introduction to 
 
 curtains are dropped and the door is shut. 
 Joseph sends all the Egyptians out of the room 
 when he is going to make himself known to his 
 brethren. Religion, says Adolf Harnack, has 
 no Geheimnisse, but it has its Heimlichkeiten ; 
 it has no secrets arbitrarily hidden from the 
 outer circle, but it has mysteries of which the- 
 many may talk either with disparagement or 
 approval, but which only the few really know. 
 The chief of these is an inner experience which 
 every one might possess, but which to those 
 who do possess it appears like a miracle, a 
 crisis that eludes capture by any ordinary 
 method of statement. To the soul alone with 
 God it comes, and the sins of a black past are 
 swept away by an unreserved forgiveness. All 
 the onward path is flooded with sunshine, and 
 the experience known as " salvation " frees the 
 spirit from limits of time ; it is distant and yet 
 near, future and yet present, beyond compre- 
 hension and yet calling for immediate transla- 
 tion into action among the homely conditions 
 of common life. The soul has found out that 
 it is no dweller in time but an inhabitant of 
 eternity, and yet it is straitly bound to the 
 obedient service of its divine Leader who is 
 
Songs of Salvation 187 
 
 ever at hand, guiding it through the half-hours 
 of daily life. 
 
 Such is regeneration, and it springs from the 
 sight of the Cross. Here is something that 
 happens in the spiritual world, something far 
 deeper than the sympathy of God with human 
 pain, for here He deals with human sin. Man 
 can deal with pain, one of the fruits of the tree 
 of poison, but God only can deal with sin and 
 lay the axe to its root. 
 
 An instinct possessed by the " little children 
 of the kingdom " leads them safely through 
 mazes of doctrine and verbal subtleties and 
 shows them the way to the Cross, the one path 
 that for them is right amid the many possible. 
 This instinct has led them to choose three very 
 simple verses out of this book, and they have 
 been printed and reprinted, and have been loved 
 by thousands who have never known the 
 author's name. They are these, — 
 
 " Since my Lord has looked on me, and since He 
 
 has bidden me look 
 Once in my heart, and once in my life, and once in 
 
 His blessed book, 
 And once on the cross where He died for me, He 
 
 has taught me that I must mend, 
 If I'd have Him to be my Saviour, and keep Him 
 
 to be my Friend. 
 
i88 Introduction 
 
 Since He's taken this long account of mine, and has 
 
 crossed it through and through, 
 If He's left me nothing at all to pay. He's given me 
 
 enough to do, 
 He's shown me things that I never knew with all 
 
 my worry and care, 
 Things thai have brought me down to my knees 
 
 and things that will keep me there. 
 
 Since He's taken this cold dark heart of mine, and 
 
 has pierced it through and through. 
 He's taught me to grieve both for things that I did, 
 
 and for things that I didn't do. 
 He has shown me the cross where He died for me, 
 
 and I'll end where I begin. 
 With an eye that looks to my Saviour, and a heart 
 
 that mourns for its sin." 
 
A SINNER AND HIS SAVIOUR 
 
 OH ! who are these, too long apart, 
 When once they've found each other's 
 heart 
 Would never from the other part ? 
 A Sinner and his Saviour. 
 
 A sinner I ; but who art Thou 
 With many crowns upon Thy brow ? 
 I see the thorn among them now 
 I know Thee for my Saviour. 
 
 Long, long I traced Thy steps ; I heard 
 Thy voice in many a gracious word ; 
 I listened till my heart was stirred 
 To seek Thee for my Saviour. 
 
190 A Sinner and his Saviour 
 
 I sought Thee, weeping, high and low ; 
 I found Thee not ; I did not know 
 I was a sinner ; even so 
 
 I missed Thee for my Saviour. 
 
 I saw Thee sweetly condescend 
 Of humble men to be the friend ; 
 I chose Thee for my way — my end. 
 But found not yet my Saviour. 
 
 Until upon the cross I saw 
 My God, who died to meet the law 
 That man had broken ; then I saw 
 My sin, and then my Saviour. 
 
 What seek I longer ? let me be 
 A sinner all my days to Thee 
 Yet more and more — and thou to me 
 Yet more and more my Saviour, 
 
 A sinner all my earthly days, 
 A sinner who believes and prays, 
 A sinner all his evil ways 
 
 Who leaves for his dear Saviour. 
 
A Sinner and his Saviour 191 
 
 Who leaves his evil ways, yet leaves 
 Not Him to whom his spirit cleaves 
 More close, that he so often grieves 
 The soul of his dear Saviour. 
 
 Be Thou to me my Lord, my Guide, 
 My Friend, yea everything beside ; 
 But first, last, best, whate'er betide. 
 Be Thou to me my Saviour ! 
 
192 Redemption 
 
 REDEMPTION 
 
 T AM not skilled to understand 
 
 -*- What God hath willed, what God hath 
 
 planned ; 
 I only know at His right hand 
 
 Stands One who is my Saviour. 
 
 I take God at His word and deed, 
 " Christ died to save me," this I read, 
 And in my heart I find a need 
 Of Him to be my Saviour. 
 
 And was there, then, no other way 
 For God to take ? — I cannot say ; 
 I only bless Him day by day 
 
 Who saved me through my Saviour. 
 
 That He should leave His place on high, 
 And come for sinful man to die, 
 You count it strange ? — so do not I, 
 Since I have known my Saviour. 
 
Redemption 193 
 
 In Heaven He found no grief, nor blame 
 To bear away, no bitter shame 
 Of death and sin, and so He came 
 To earth to be its Saviour. 
 
 And had there been in all this wide. 
 Wide world no other soul beside 
 But only mine, then He had died 
 That He might be its Saviour ; 
 
 One wounded spirit, sore opprest. 
 One wearied soul that found no rest 
 Until it found it on the breast 
 
 Of Him that was its Saviour ; — 
 
 Then had He left His Father's throne. 
 The joy untold, the love unknown, 
 And for that soul had given His own, 
 That He might be its Saviour. 
 
 And oh ! that He fulfilled may see 
 The travail of His soul in me. 
 And with His work contented be. 
 As I with my dear Saviour ! 
 
194 Redemption 
 
 Yea, living, dying, let me bring 
 My strength, my solace from this spring, 
 That He who lives to be my King, 
 Once died to be my Saviour ! 
 
Repentance 195 
 
 REPENTANCE 
 
 TF the Lord were to send down blessings 
 -■- from Heaven as fast and as thick as the 
 
 fall 
 Of the drops of the rain, of the flakes of the 
 
 snow, I'd love and I'd bless Him for all ; 
 But the gift that I'd crave, and the gift that I'd 
 
 keep if I'd only one to choose. 
 Is the gift of a broken and contrite heart, for 
 
 that God will not refuse. 
 
 For what is my wish, and what is my hope, 
 
 when I've toiled, and I've prayed, and I've 
 
 striven 
 All the days that I live upon earth ? It is this 
 
 — to be forgiven ! 
 And what is my wish, and what is my hope but 
 
 to end where I begin, 
 With an eye that looks to my Saviour, and a 
 
 heart that mourns for its sin ? 
 
 p 
 
196 Repentance 
 
 What ! perhaps ypu'll think that I'm going to 
 
 say I'm the chief of sinners, and then 
 You'd tell me, for aught that you've ever seen, 
 
 I'm no worse than other men. 
 I've nothing to do with better and worse, I 
 
 haven't to judge for the rest ; 
 If other men are not better than me, they're 
 
 bad enough at the best. 
 
 I've nothing to do with other folks — it isn't for 
 
 me to say 
 What sort of men the Scribes might be, or 
 
 the Pharisees in their day ; 
 But we know that it wasn't for such as they 
 
 that the Kingdom of Heaven was meant. 
 And we're told we shaU likewise perish unless 
 
 we do repent. 
 
 Why, what have I done, perhaps you'll say, 
 
 that should make me fret and grieve ? 
 I didn't wrangle, or curse, or swear, I didn't 
 
 lie or thieve ; 
 I'm clear of cheating, and drinking, and debt ; 
 
 well, perhaps, but I cannot say ; 
 For some of these things I hadn't a mind, and 
 
 some didn't come in my way. 
 
Repentance 197 
 
 And there's many a thing I could wish undone, 
 
 though the law might not be broke, 
 And there's many a word, now I come to think, 
 
 that I could wish unspoke. 
 I did what I thought would answer the best, 
 
 and I said just what came to my mind ; 
 I wasn't so honest that I need boast, and I'm 
 
 sure that I wasn't kind. 
 
 For we'll come to the things that I left undone, 
 
 and then there'll be more to say ; 
 And we'll ask for the broken hearts that I 
 
 cheered, and the tears that I wiped away ; 
 I thought of myself, and wrought for myself — 
 
 for myself and for none beside, 
 Just as if Jesus had never lived, and as if He 
 
 had never died. 
 
 But since my Lord has looked on me, and since 
 
 He has bid me look 
 Once in my heart, and once in my life, and 
 
 once in His blessed book, 
 And once on the cross where He died for me, 
 
 He has taught me that I must mend. 
 If I'd have Him to be my Saviour, and keep 
 
 Him to be my friend. 
 
198 Repentance 
 
 Since He's taken this long account of mine, 
 
 and has crossed it through and through ; 
 If He's left me nothing at all to pay, He's given 
 
 me enough to do. 
 He's shown me things that I never knew with 
 
 all my worry and care, 
 Things that have brought me down to my 
 
 knees, and things that will keep me there. 
 
 He has shown me the law that works in Him, 
 
 and the law that works in me, 
 Life unto life, and death unto death, and He's 
 
 asked how these agree. 
 He has made me weary of self and pelf — ^Yes ! 
 
 my Saviour has bid me grieve 
 For the days and the years when I did not pray, 
 
 when I did not love, nor believe. 
 
 Since He's taken this cold dark heart of mine, 
 
 and has pierced it through and through. 
 He's taught me to grieve both for things that I 
 
 did, and for things that I didn't do. 
 He has shown me the cross where He died for 
 
 me, and I'll end where I begin. 
 With an eye that looks to my Saviour, and a 
 
 heart that mourns for its sin ! 
 
Conversion 199 
 
 CONVERSION 
 
 THE PITMAN TO HIS WIFE 
 
 OIT ye down on the settle, here by me, I've 
 
 ^ got something to say to thee, wife ; 
 
 I want to be a new sort of man, and to lead a 
 
 new sort of life : 
 There's but little pleasure and little gain in 
 
 spending the days I spend. 
 Just to work like a horse all the days of my 
 
 life, and to die like a dog at the end. 
 
 For where's the profit and where's the good, if 
 
 one once begins to think. 
 In making away with what little sense one had 
 
 at the first, through drink ? 
 Or in spending one's time and one's money, too, 
 
 with a lot of chaps that would go 
 To see one hang'd, and like it as well as any 
 
 other show ? 
 
200 Conversion 
 
 And as to the pleasure that some folks find in 
 
 cards or in pitch and toss, 
 It's little they've ever brought to me but only a 
 
 vast of loss ; 
 We'd be sure to light on some great dispute, 
 
 and then to set all right, 
 The shortest way was to argue it out in a 
 
 regular stand-up fight. 
 
 I've got a will, dear wife, I say, I've got a will 
 
 to be 
 A kinder father to my poor bairns, and a better 
 
 man to thee, 
 And to leave off" drinking, and swearing, and 
 
 all, no matter what folks may say ; 
 For I see what's the end of such things as 
 
 these, and I know this is not the way. 
 
 You'll wonder to hear me talk like this, as I've 
 
 never talked before ; 
 But I've got a word in my heart, that has made 
 
 it glad, yet has made it sore. 
 I've got a word like a fire in my heart that will 
 
 not let me be, 
 " Jesus, the Son of God, who loved, and who 
 
 gave Himself for Trie." 
 
Conversion 201 
 
 I've got a word like a sword in my heart, that 
 
 has pierced it through and through. 
 When a message comes to a man from Heaven 
 
 he needn't ask if it's true ; 
 There's none on earth could frame such a tale, 
 
 for as strange as the tale may be, 
 Jesus, my Saviour, that Thou shouldst die for 
 
 love of a man like me ! 
 
 Why, only think, now ! if it had been Peter, or 
 
 blessed Paul, 
 Or John, who used to lean on His breast, one 
 
 couldn't have wondered at all, 
 If He'd loved and He'd died for men like these, 
 
 who loved Him so well, — but you see 
 It was me that Jesus loved, wife ! He gave 
 
 Himself for me ! 
 
 It was for me that Jesus died ! for me, and a 
 
 world of men 
 Just as sinful and just as slow to give back His 
 
 love again ; 
 He didn't wait till I came to Him, but He 
 
 loved me at ray worst ; 
 He needn't ever have died for me if I could 
 
 have loved Him first. 
 
202 Conversion 
 
 And couldst Thou love such a man as me, my 
 
 Saviour ! then I'll take 
 More heed to this wand'ring soul of mine, if it's 
 
 only for Thy sake. 
 For it wasn't that I might spend my days just 
 
 in work, and in drink, and in strife, 
 That Jesus, the Son of God, has given His love 
 
 and has given His life. 
 
 It wasn't that I might spend my life just as my 
 
 life's been spent. 
 That He's brought me so near to His mighty 
 
 cross, and has told me what it meant. 
 He doesn't need me to die for Him, He only 
 
 asks me to live ; 
 There's nothing of mine that He wants but my 
 
 heart, and it's all that I've got to give ! 
 
 I've got a friend, dear wife, I say, I've got a 
 
 Heavenly friend. 
 That will show me where I go astray, and will 
 
 help me how to mend, 
 That'll make me kinder to my poor bairns, 
 
 that'll make me better to thee ; — 
 Jesus, the Son of God, who loved, and who 
 
 gave Himself for me ! 
 
The Wife's Answer 203 
 
 THE WIFE'S ANSWER 
 
 T'VE listened, Geordie, to all thou's said, and 
 
 -*■- now that thou's had thy say, 
 
 I can but tell thee it's far the best of my hear- 
 ing this many a day ; 
 
 Though many a look thou's given to me, and 
 many a word thou's said, 
 
 I was pleased enough to get and to hear both 
 before and since we were wed. 
 
 Thou wast never much of a one for talk, and I 
 
 reckon there's little need 
 Of a vast of words between two folks that are 
 
 always weU agreed ; 
 Yet many a talk we've had to ourselves, just 
 
 sitting here by the fire. 
 But never a one that's been so much to my 
 
 heart's content and desire. 
 
 For if thou couldst take a look in my heart, 
 
 and read from it hne by Hne, 
 As one reads from out of a printed book, it 
 
 would be like this talk of thine : 
 
204 The Wife's Answer 
 
 For I've got a word, a word in my heart, that's 
 
 made it both glad and sore, 
 And ye'll wonder to hear me talk like this, 
 
 that's never talk'd so before. 
 
 For though I've gone both to chapel and 
 
 church, and I've minded what I've heard 
 
 said, 
 Yet so many things all the sermon through 
 
 would come in and out of my head ; 
 It might be the bairns, or it might be thee, or 
 
 what we're to get to eat. 
 Or what we're to get to wear, or how I'd to 
 
 manage to make ends meet. 
 
 That I've thought, when I've seen the minister 
 
 stand and give out a beautiful text, 
 And tell us we're not to take heed for this 
 
 life, but to give all our minds to the 
 
 next; 
 It's easier said than it's done for me, what with 
 
 waur-day work to do. 
 And so many folks just with waur-day talk 
 
 dropping in all the Sunday through. 
 
The Wife's Answer 205 
 
 But now my mind's got another turn, and I see 
 
 all as clear as glass, 
 And I've given my heart to the chief concern, 
 
 and how it has come to pass 
 I'll tell thee now that we've once begun — it was 
 
 all through our little lass. 
 
 For " Mother," says she, as she and I were 
 
 going one night upstairs, 
 "Amn't I old enough," she says, "to give up 
 
 saying my prayers ? 
 For I've been seven such a long time now, I 
 
 think I'll be eight very soon. 
 And it's long since I've had a knife and a fork, 
 
 and given over using a spoon." 
 
 " Why, what dost thou mean by such talk ? " I 
 
 said, and she turns on me her eyes, 
 And gives me a look quite innocent, and yet as 
 
 wise as wise ; 
 " Why, mother," she says, " there's a lot 
 
 of things, like saying ' I will ' and ' I 
 
 won't,' 
 That children are always bid to mind, and that 
 
 bigger people don't. 
 
2o6 The Wife's Answer 
 
 " And brothers, when they were as young as me, 
 
 wore their little frocks instead 
 Of coats and trousers, and little ones are sent 
 
 off soon to bed, 
 And set to learn our AB abs, and I thought 
 
 that saying one's prayers 
 Was just like these,^ for / never see any grovm- 
 
 up folks say theirs." 
 
 " bairn," I said, " have done with thy talk," 
 
 for each word was like a knife ; 
 " Of lessons, thou's given thy mother one that'll 
 
 last her all her life ; " 
 And I knelt down beside her little bed, and all 
 
 that I could say 
 Was just " Our Father, Who art in Heaven," 
 
 and " Lord, teach me how to pray." 
 
 " And pardon," I said, " a sinner's heart, that 
 
 comes to Thee on her knees. 
 And pardon her ways that's been blind so long 
 
 that it's only now she sees ; 
 And pardon," I said, " a sinner's life, and give 
 
 her Thy grace to mend. 
 And be Thou to me, and be Thou to mine, a 
 
 Saviour and a Friend." 
 ' This was really said by a little girl to her mother. 
 
The Wife's Answer 207 
 
 It's been on my mind to tell thee this, but I 
 
 thought thou'd think it strange ; 
 Thou's always got thy own ideas, and thou's 
 
 not one given to change, 
 And I thought I'd just hold my peace and 
 
 wait, for its little a woman can 
 Do at her best, let her do her best, without 
 
 the help of her man. 
 
 It isn't for me to be leadin' thee, but now that 
 
 thou's taken a start. 
 We'll go together, for didn't we say the words 
 
 " Until death us part ? " 
 It'll never part us now, Geordie, for we're 
 
 seeking the blessed land. 
 Thou and me and the canny bairns, and we're 
 
 seeking it hand in hand ! 
 
 "Aw 
 
2o8 A Good Confession 
 
 A GOOD CONFESSION 
 
 Suggested by hearing of a tombstone in a country 
 churchyard in Wales, on which was inscribed the 
 name of a man who had lived to some years above 
 eighty, yet was said to be (alluding to his conver- 
 sion to Christ) only " four years old when he died." 
 
 XF you ask me how long I have been in the 
 
 -■- world, I'm old — I'm very old ; 
 
 If you ask me how many years I've lived, it'll 
 
 very soon be told — 
 Past eighty years of age, yet only four years 
 
 old! 
 
 Eighty years and more astray upon the moun- 
 tains high, 
 
 In a land that's full of pits and snares, and 
 that's desolate and dry. 
 
 I've oft been weary, oft been cold, and oft been 
 like to die ; 
 
 And there I'd have wandered, wandered still, 
 as I'd wandered many a day ; 
 
A Good Confession 209 
 
 I'd lost the track-marks of the flock, I'd got so 
 
 far away, 
 If Jesus hadn't met me, that seeks for them 
 
 that stray. 
 
 The Shepherd took me in His arms, for you see 
 
 I'm getting old, 
 And my strength is, as the Psalmist says, gone 
 
 like a tale that's told ; 
 " And other sheep," the Shepherd says, " I 
 
 have, and to the fold 
 
 "Them also must I bring," for He has many 
 
 little lambs. 
 All milk-white, mild, and innocent, a-skipping 
 
 by their dams ; 
 And many sheep that have been driven along 
 
 the dusty roads. 
 Hard driven along by dogs and men, and 
 
 pricked with iron goads, 
 And marked with iron brands to show they've 
 
 oft been bought and sold ; 
 Brown ragged sheep, with fleeces torn, and 
 
 faces wizened and old ; 
 
210 A Good Confession 
 
 And if you ask me which of these I think He 
 
 loves the best— 
 The lambs or sheep — I cannot say ; He'll love 
 
 me with the rest ; 
 For " Feed my little lambs," he said when He 
 
 gave His flock to keep, 
 To Peter, once, and twice He said to Peter, 
 
 " Feed my sheep." 
 
 He's got a garden full of flowers, all planted 
 
 row by row, 
 Roses and pinks and mignonette a-coming into 
 
 blow ; 
 And many little pleasant herbs that near each 
 
 other grow : 
 
 Balm o' GUead, mint and thyme, and sage and 
 
 marjorie, 
 And many a dry old stick and stalk, and many 
 
 a withered tree ; 
 That's neither good for use nor show, and these 
 
 are folk like me ; 
 
 And many such-like ones He's got, but Scrip- 
 ture sayeth, " Lo ! 
 
 He taketh such and maketh them to flourish 
 and to grow ; " 
 
A Good Confession 2ii 
 
 For He's not a man that He should judge by 
 
 seeing of His eyes, 
 He's not a Son of man that He should any one 
 
 despise ; 
 He's God Himself/ and far too kind for that, 
 
 and far too wise. 
 
 He's God Himself, come down from Heaven to 
 
 raise us when we fall ; 
 He's come to heal us when we're sick, to hear 
 
 us when we call ; 
 If He hadn't come to do us good, He wouldn't 
 
 have come at all. 
 
 And "Ask, He says, and I will give, and 
 
 knock, and I to you 
 Will open," Jesus says to us, and I know that 
 
 it is true, — 
 It isn't Him would sa/y the things He doesn't 
 
 mean to do. 
 
 • The expressions in italics in this and in the 
 following verses, referring to our Blessed Saviour, 
 the author heard used by a very poor and extremely 
 ignorant person. 
 Q 
 
212 A Good Confession 
 
 He didn't come to judge the world, He didn't 
 
 come to blame, 
 He didn't only come to seek ; it was to save 
 
 He came ; 
 And when we call Him Saviour, then we call 
 
 Him by His name. 
 
 He sought for me when I was lost. He brought 
 
 me to His fold ; 
 He doesn't look for much from me, for He 
 
 doesn't need be told 
 I'm past eighty years of age, and yet but four 
 
 years old ! 
 
 July 30, 1872. 
 
An Invitation 213 
 
 AN INVITATION 
 
 (Mission Hymn) 
 
 " This man receiveth sinners." 
 
 /^OME, hearts that are blighted and broken 
 ^-^ and bruised ; 
 
 Come, spirits benighted, rejected, refused ; 
 Come, look on your Saviour ! Behold Him, He 
 
 stands 
 With a wound in His heart, and a world in His 
 
 hands. 
 
 Come now, ye transgressors through force and 
 
 through fraud ; 
 Come now, ye oppressors, and look on your Lord ; 
 Oh come, ye deceivers ; oh come, ye deceived ; 
 Come slave and come tyrant ; come, grieving 
 
 and grieved. 
 
 Come, men who are mighty to curse and revile ; 
 Come, women whose lips have forgot how to 
 smile ; 
 
214 An Invitation 
 
 Come, bond-slaves, come sin-slaves, come 
 
 drunkards, come thieves ; 
 Come hither to Jesus ; 'tis such He receives. 
 
 Come, outcast, abandoned, of devils the prey ; 
 Come, now unto One that is stronger than 
 
 they; 
 Come, dwellers in darkness ; come, neighbours 
 
 to hell. 
 Where man dare not enter, the Spirit can 
 
 dwell. 
 
 And fear not, though Legion should still be 
 
 their name, 
 Deeds nameless, deeds shameless, that bring 
 
 you to shame ; 
 Oh, fear not, poor sinners, let this be your 
 
 fear, — 
 To miss the kind Saviour who waits for you 
 
 here. 
 
 For all your distresses, excesses, and need. 
 His love and his pity unceasingly plead, 
 , Your deepest demerit His blood can efface ; 
 Come, sinners, inherit the treasure of grace I 
 
An Invitation 215 
 
 Yea, if there be any who bear a dark stain 
 On brow and on bosom, the blood-mark of Cain, 
 'Tis Abel who loves you, 'tis Abel who pleads ; 
 For the brother who slew Him He now inter- 
 cedes. 
 
 Come, kneeling before Him, adore Him, and 
 
 grow 
 More pure than the sunbeam, more white than 
 
 the snow ; 
 He chose you, come, choose Him your Saviour, 
 
 who died ; 
 Fear only to lose Him ; fear nothing beside ! 
 
 September 8. 
 
i6 Everlasting Love 
 
 EVERLASTING LOVE 
 
 " /^OME and sit by my bed awhile, Jeanie ; 
 
 ^-^ there's just a little space 
 Betwixt light and dark, and the fire is low and 
 
 I cannot see your face ; 
 But I like to feel I've hold of your hand, and 
 
 to know I've got you near. 
 For kind and good you've been, Jeanie, the time 
 
 that I've been here. 
 
 " Kind and good you've been, Jeanie, when all 
 
 was so dull and strange ; 
 I was left to myself, and was not myself, and 
 
 I seemed too old to change. 
 And I couldn't get framed to the House's ways ; 
 
 it was neither work nor play ; 
 It wasn't at all like being at home, and it 
 
 wasn't like being away. 
 
 " And the days slipt on and the years slipt on, 
 
 and I felt in a kind of dream, 
 As I used to do in the noisy school sewing a 
 
 long white seam ; 
 
Everlasting Love 217 
 
 Sewing, sewing a long white seam the whole 
 
 of the summer day, 
 When I'd like to have been in the open fields 
 
 either at work or at play. 
 
 " But now I feel as I used to feel in the summer 
 
 evenings cool, 
 When we bairns would meet at the end of the 
 
 street, or the edge of the village pool ; 
 Or like when I've stood at the gate to wait for 
 
 father home from the town, 
 And held him tight by the hand, or held my 
 
 mother tight by the gown. 
 
 " And I feel to-night as I used to feel when I 
 
 was a little lass. 
 When something seemed alive in the leaves 
 
 and something astir in the grass ; 
 And all in the room seems warm and light, and 
 
 I'm pleased to go or to stay ; 
 But I've got a word in my heart, Jeanie, that's 
 
 calling me away." 
 
 " Oh, what have you seen, Nannie, have you 
 
 seen a blessed sight 
 Of angels coming to meet you ; have you heard 
 
 them at dead of night ? " 
 
2i8 Everlasting Love 
 
 "Oh, nothing, nothing like that, Jeanie, but 
 
 what saith the blessed Word ? 
 God speaketh once, yea twice, unto man, when 
 
 never a voice is heard. 
 
 " And He's given a word unto me, Jeanie — a 
 
 word and a holy thought 
 Of something I've never found upon earth, and 
 
 something I've always sought ; 
 Of something I never thought that I'd find till 
 
 I found it in Heaven above ; 
 It's Love He has given to me, Jeanie, His 
 
 everlasting love. 
 
 " I'm old, Jeanie, poor and old, and I've had 
 
 to work hard for my bread ; 
 It's long since father and mother died, and ye 
 
 know I was never wed ; 
 And the most of my life's been spent in Place, 
 
 and in places where I have been, 
 If I've heard a little talk about love, it's been 
 
 work I've mostly seen. 
 
 " And in summer the days were long and light, 
 
 and in winter short and cold, 
 TiU at last I was good for work no more, for 
 
 you see I'm getting old ; 
 
Everlasting Love 219 
 
 And I knew there was nothing left for me but 
 to come to the House, and I cried, 
 
 But if I was not good for work, what was I 
 good for beside ? 
 
 " And still when I went to chapel and church, 
 
 I heard of love and of love ; 
 It was something I hadn't met with on earth, 
 
 and that hadn't come down from above ; 
 It was something I'd heard of, but never seen, 
 
 that I'd wished for and hadn't found. 
 But I liked to hear of love and of love, it had 
 
 such a beautiful sound. 
 
 " And I used to think, perhaps it was meant 
 
 for richer people and higher. 
 Like the little maid that sits at church beside 
 
 her father the Squire, 
 For the angels that always live above, or for 
 
 good folks after they die ; 
 But now it has come to me, I know it is nigh 
 
 and is very nigh." 
 
 " tell me what you have seen, Nannie ; have 
 
 you seen a shining light ? 
 Have you heard the angels that harp and sing 
 
 to their golden harps at night ? " 
 
220 Everlasting Love 
 
 " Oh, Jeanie, woman, I couldn't have thought 
 of such things as these if I tried ; 
 
 It was God Himself that spoke to me ; it was 
 Him and none beside. 
 
 " It wasn't a voice that spoke in my ear, but a 
 
 Word that came to my soul, 
 And it isn't a little love I've got in my heart 
 
 when I've got the whole ; 
 It is peace, it is joy, that has filled it up as a 
 
 cup is filled to its brim ; 
 Just to know that Jesus died for me,^ and that 
 
 I am one with Him. 
 
 " It's love, Jeanie, that's come to me as nigh as 
 
 you're now, and nigher ; 
 It's love that'll never change, Jeanie, it's love 
 
 that'll never tire, 
 Though I'm old and I'm poor, and deaf, and 
 
 dark, — and the most of folks that I see, 
 Be they ever so kind I'd weary of them, or 
 
 they'd soon grow weary of me. 
 
 ' " / knew that Jesus was 'my Saviour, and that 
 J was one with Him:" words used by an aged, 
 humble believer, in describing a manifestation 
 which had conveyed unspeakable peace to her soul, 
 at a time of great bodily weakness, and in the near 
 prospect of death. 
 
Everlasting Love 221 
 
 " And this isn't the House any more ! it's 
 
 Home, and I'm pleased to go or to stay ; 
 I'm not a woman weary with work, or a little 
 
 lass at play, 
 I'm a child with its hand in its father's hand, 
 
 its head on its mother's breast ; 
 It's Christ, Jeanie, that's bid me come to Him, 
 
 and that's given me rest. 
 
 " And it isn't little God's given to me, though 
 He's kept it to the end, — 
 
 It's wealth that the richest cannot buy, that the 
 poorest can never spend ; 
 
 And I needn't wait till I go to Heaven, for it's 
 Heaven come down from above ; 
 
 It's love, Jeanie, God's given to me. His ever- 
 lasting love ! " 
 
"TITHEN the wandering son had consumed his 
 father's substance, he returned home to 
 sorrowfully announce himself : the father saith 
 not, ' Whence comest thou T or ' Where is now 
 all thy patrimony ? ' but ' Bring hither the new 
 garment ; kill the fatted calf ; let us now rejoice ; 
 my son was dead and is alive.' Here was a welcome 
 home that might amaze him. 
 
 " Though we sometimes lose the nature of children, 
 yet God doth never lose the name, nay, the nature 
 of a father — a name of privilege to His children. 
 He is not only a father, but our father, and that 
 which is more, a father in heaven, that howsoever 
 we are disturbed in earth, the comfort is we have a 
 father in heaven. 
 
 " God is not such a one as Adam took Him to be, 
 from whom when he had sinned he should fly and 
 hide himself for fear ; hut God is such a one to 
 whom Adam and all that have sinned may have 
 access with hope and love. 
 
 " ' Mine iniquity is greater than can be forgiven.' 
 No, Cain, thou errest ; God's mercy is far greater, 
 couldst thou ask mercy. Men cannot be more 
 sinful than God is merciful, if with penitent 
 hearts they will call upon Him." — From an Old 
 Writer. 
 
 TDRNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBDRQH 
 
Dora Greenwell's Choice Works. 
 
 CARMINA CRUCIS. 
 
 By DORA GREENWELL. 
 New Edition, Handsome Cloth, Cr. 8vo, 3s. 6d., post free. 
 
 The first reprint of this very scarce volume of Poems by DORA 
 GREENWELL. Re-edited, with an Introduction, by Miss C. L. 
 MAYNARD, of Hampstead. 
 
 Neat Cloth, 2S. 6d. each, post free. 
 
 TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 By DORA GREENWELL. 2S. 6d. 
 
 COLLOQUIA CRUCIS. 
 
 (A Sequel to "Two Friends.") By DORA GREENWELL. as. 6d. 
 
 THE PATIENCE OF HOPE. 
 
 By DORA GREENWELL. 2s. 6d. 
 
 THE COVENANT OF LIFE AND PEACE; 
 or, A Present Heaven. 
 
 By DORA GREENWELL. 2S. 6d. 
 
 EVERLASTING LOVE, 
 and other Songs of Salvation. 
 By DORA GREENWELL. 6d. net.; post free, yd. 
 In Cloth, IS. net. s 
 
 Contains several beautiful ballads in the style of the Gordon League 
 
 Some Appreciative Notices of DORA GREENWELL'S 
 WORKS. 
 
 British Weekly: — "The most suggestive writings on 'The Atone- 
 ment ' we know are the works of Dora Greenwell. " 
 
 Baptist Magazine :— " We regard these works as amongst our most 
 cherished treasures, and rejoice in their re-issue." 
 
 Expository Times: — "Do you know Dora Greenwell? Then will 
 you rejoice that new editions have been issued of her works so long out 
 of print, most pleasant to handle, most precious to have." 
 
 The Athenseiun : — "Miss Greenwell is peculiarly fitted with natural 
 gifts for entering the chambers of the human heart, and is spiritually 
 endowed to walk therewith a brightening influence, cheering, soothing, 
 exalting, with words of comfort and looks of love, as a kind of Florence 
 Nightingale walking the hospital of ailing souls." 
 
 LONDON : 
 H. R. ALLENSON, Ltd., Racquet Court, Fleet St., E.C. 
 
FORTY-FOUR FRESH 
 GOOD STORIES 
 
 Handsome Cloth, Crown 8vo, Gilt top, 2S. 6d. net 
 
 THE 
 
 GOLDEN WINDOWS 
 
 FABLES FOR YOUNG AND OLD 
 
 By LAURA E. 
 
 Author of " Captain January," 
 
 RICHARDS 
 
 "The Silver Crown," &c. 
 
 CONTENTS OF THIS TRULY DELIGHTFUL BOOK: 
 
 The Golden Windows* 
 The Coming: of the King:. 
 The Tree in the City. 
 The House of Love. 
 The Great Feast. 
 The Walled Garden. 
 The Open Door. 
 A Misunderstanding-, 
 From a Far Country. 
 A Matter of Importance. 
 The Wedding* Guests. 
 The Shadow. 
 Good Advice. 
 The Strong Child. 
 The Apron String. 
 
 , Two Ways. 
 The Desert. 
 The Scar. 
 The Hill. 
 The Day. 
 The Baby. 
 The Road. 
 Home. 
 The Stars. 
 The Cooky. 
 Anybody. 
 The Giftie. 
 The Staff. 
 To-Morrow. 
 The Door. 
 
 The Prominent Man. 
 For Remembrance. 
 The Blind Mother. 
 "Go" and "Come." 
 The Point of View. 
 A Fortune. 
 Child's Play. 
 The Windows. 
 The Wheatfield. 
 The Sailor Man. 
 Theolog:y. 
 The Pig Brother. 
 About Angels. 
 
 HIGH PRAISE— WELL DESERVED 
 
 Lilian Whiting writes: — "Of all the exquisite things in late literature 'The 
 Golden Windows' must, perhaps, take leading place. It is a collection of brief 
 allegorical tales, each stamped with the impress of uplifting, beautiful thought, 
 presented in an original and striking manner, and with all the charm of style that 
 characterises Mrs Richards." 
 
 Rev. Bernard J. Snell writes : — " I regard * Golden Windows ' as the most 
 charming book that has come into my hands for many years. Every little 
 casket of a story holds a gem of truth. How in the world is it so slow in getting 
 known?" 
 
 The Bookman says: — "'Parables were more ancient than arguments,' wc have 
 been told, and after reading Mrs Richards' tender, graceful little fables we are in- 
 clined to wonder why the older method gave place to the newer. In forty lovely 
 lessons she enforces as many hidden truths, and writes so simply, yet so well, 
 that the book will appeal to the old as well a<t to the young. The initial fabU of 
 'The Golden Windows' tells of the boy who looked across to the wonderful shining 
 windows on the opposite hill, until one day he journeyed to see them closely. When 
 he reached them they were but ordinary glass.and looking back he saw that now his 
 own home was the house with the golden windows. This is the skeleton of the 
 fable, but Mrs Richards has filled it out with sympathy and a delicate fancy. The 
 others are equally impressive, the one of 'The Wheatfield' being as touching as any- 
 thing of the sort we have read. Indeed^ we think there has been notning so 
 good as this volume since Mrs Gatty wrote her ' Parables from Nature.* 
 
 LONDON 
 H. R. ALLENSON, Ltd., Racquet Court, Fleet Street, E.G.