1H524 E5 1899 )UL ^ N KPIC OF THE SOUL f/ NEW YORK THOMAS WHITTAKER 1899 Copyright, 1899, by Thomas Whittakhr. 3180O ( Press of J. T. Little & Co., New York. XTbe Deatb ot Summer CVJ HE weary summer sickens, soon to die ; ^Sy The fields are dusty, and the sheaves of com Draw up their tattered draperies, raise on high Their warning, skeleton fingers, — ^nod and sigh In the passing wind, and whisper, all forlorn. For summer's work is done — her weak hand drops Its wealth of orchard rows, of ripened crops, Into the lap of autumn, standing by. II Ube TReian ot 2)ust 3fl SEEK in vain, for no fresh flowers are here ; ^^ A light wind curls the dust along the street. The grass is parched, the leaves are choked and sere; Although to-day begins the death of the year We gasp beneath the stifling, lifeless heat. And everything stands panting, white with dust, Impatient for the rain — the rushing gust — The thunderstorm to clear the atmosphere. Ill a iRefuoe SljljHBN thouglits of eartlily things too mucli enslave "^^^^ I turn to mighty suns by us unseen, — Or many a black, unknown, invisible cave Of our own globe, — or to the pulsing wave Of strange, dark blood behind this fleshy screen. Such little homes of one great God are we, And everything we see or do not see, Else all would be forgotten as the grave. IV ^0 an Htbetst 3^ AY, do not look on me so scornfully, ^"^^ My friend ; beneath is ignorance and anguish. You skim the surface of philosophy And chatter your opinions flippantly — And all divine and saving passions languish. Yet terror yawns at times, and blank despair, For the relief of reverence is not there, — And yet you do not know your own deficiency. #»■ ®ne Mbo sees Urutb an& jfalsebooJ) SkJOW futile is this life, unless there be ^^■^ Some broad Intelligence, to reconcile My views of others and their views of me And mine of me, with that real self which He Beholds — a crystal sparkling in his smile. In Him we ravel out this tangled skein. In Him all crooked ways shall be made plain, All shall be clear as far as eye can see. VI H 2)C6ire SljljOULD that I were a ship, which in the vast "^^^^ Of waters, yet hath found safe anchorage, — A column, careless of the whistling blast — A pyramid, not to be overcast — An oak, whose roots strike deeper, age to age ; A rock, firm-set upon a stormy coast — A tower of strength against a maddened host- A self-forgetful, bold enthusiast. VII iRature's Ssmpatbs HOW nature sympatliizes with our moods, How well interprets them! She soothes away In the great sorrow over which she broods My selfish discontent, for she includes My little sadness in her own to-day. She mourns in each dejected, dripping leaf, Each dash of rain, — her uncomplaining grief Enwraps whole tracts of pathless solitudes. VIII Ibope in Despondency ( ^^ S rays the sunliglit from tlie misty west /^^" After a storm, and sweeter is the calm, — So, though there seems a weight upon my breast. And though my heart is sick and sore-opprest I know that it will find a kindly balm. So I embrace my transient suffering And cherish it, and take away its sting, Till o'er my spirit steals a tide of rest. IX xrbe XanO JSeulab 3 RECOLLECT one perfect day— words fail To tell the peace thereof, how fond soever. I seemed upon a spacious intervale *Mid grouping elms, deep grass and galingale, In time so sweet that it should last forever. Such days are far apart as hill from hill, — Their distant prospects, their pure visions thrill One's heart, when passing down a shadowed dale. X B Glimpse ^k T times I see, as in a waking dream, -^^ Great nature laboring blindly toward no end I see her marvelous creations teem With useless life — and even the beauty extreme Of man's brute body, whither does it tend ? A sudden splendor flashes from on high, I see him bare his bosom to the sky — His frame transfigured in that piercing beam. XI •ffmrnortalitij fKNOW that it is so, in heart and sonl — As God doth live forever, we shall live. Though ice should lock the globe from pole to pole Or though the universe be turned to coal, 'Twere but the end of what was fugitive. So when the world has fruited, and is naught. We still shall be an island in God's thought To care for, to illumine, to console. XII H Cruel Wcitv 3^0ES God look do\vn upon us from a star '^^^ Careless of love or hate, of good or ill? And will He send no sliining avatar While man's great spirit beats its prison-bar Longing to worship, and to know His will? If He be but a great, impartial eye Expressionless, then let us creep and die, For we ourselves are more humane bj^ far. XIII Us ibe lRex>eale^? Sj^ET how can we submit to those inflictions J^ At which the powers of reason grow satirical, Or pin our faith to any pleasing fictions, Though honest seeming, full of contradictions, Supported by the jugglery of miracle ? The story seems a beautiful invention — The birth, the resurrection, the ascension — And can it move the mind with deep convictions? XIV H prapcr tor ipar^on ^jfrORGIVB me, oh my God, if I resist W Thy holy Spirit; let me never harden My human heart's warm promptings, but enlist Its service for the truth — not warp and twist, Deforming knowledge, — pardon me, oh pardon I Let faith bring virtue, virtue understanding, Whence love is born, and love alway expanding Rise to the joy of thine evangelist. XV XTbe /©aster ^■pfcNB way God opens by tlie wliicli we rise; ^J^ Through him who was the perfect illustration Of all that saves, transfigures, dignifies Man's life — the Master speaking to the wise, The Prophet, fired by holy indignation, — Among the sons of men, still doing good, And round him, felt, but slowly understood, A gentle radiance, seen by angels' eyes. XVI ©ctobet SIT is the pleasant summer of all saints, /^ And autumn, in his ripe old age serene, (While now the mellow sunlight richly paints The maples,) free from discords, cares, complaints, Feels close at hand the world that is unseen. Oh, happy those who labored long ago And after labor rest — ^what peace they know In silent spaces, far from toils and taints I XVII Hftersummer ORB beautiful than summer in lier pride, Sweet spirit of repose, I cling to thee! Must thou depart? Then let thy peace abide With me the winter through; nay, do not hide The sorrow in thine eyes — it grieveth me. Yet that thou could'st, upon this rustic seat, Against this sunny wall, stay with me, sweet ! But no, a cool breeze whirls a withered leaf aside. XVIII Contemplation (^k H, would tliat it were granted me to lead ^^ A sheltered life — that I might overlook From some high oriel, a sunny mead Toward mountains in the south, and day long feed Upon the ripple of the distant brook. To feel the quiet of the afterglow And tune the frame in harmony — to grow Into the heart of things — were life indeed ! XIX Hctfvlts S^ WOULD not be forever self-controlled, ^^ But witli clear eyes that sometimes flame in wrath, Not dimmed by too much study, — and high-souled, Large-limbed, pure-blooded as a god of old, — Strong as an athlete coming from the bath ; And with a body fresh and unabused. By some great thought uplifted and transfused, Not bent and soiled with grovelling in the mould. XX Bualism (^k H me I I cannot do tlie thing I would : ^^^ Some strange perversity, I know not what, (As if before my face a phantom stood) Bewilders me, and blurs the pure and good — I catch a glimpse of something I knew not. Oh make me one as Thou art, gracious Lord ! For often I am like a twanging chord Seen double, and not sounding as it should. XXI I HALL I not pray? With curling lip you say: "What profits it?" Oh worshipper of the letter, You fall upon your knees before the gray Old despotism of law — Him I obey Whose thoughts those laws are. Tell me, which is better? As man works wonders in the realm of sense Shall not our God, in his kind providence, Pour his free spirit on us when we pray? f XXII matures sternness N nature everything must yield to power, ^ Brute force in one direction — she endows No life with freedom, but the strong devour The feeble and the ailing in that hour When they forsake the line that she allows. Yet thus she holds to her ideal types — And we must scourge ourselves with many stripes, Cast off, put on, to win the offered dower. XXIII TTbe Street O mournful are the crowded city streets They almost shake my faith — the herd that races To gorge its sensual greed, that fawns and cheats, And all the loathsome faces that one meets— The sordid, bloated, leering, sneering faces. May I not scorn these scramblers after pelf, I, who at times do so despise myself? *Tis fair — it does but cancel my receipts. XXIV SufcUT some one clasps me, with a playful sigh; >^" And softening beneath the dear compulsion In consciousness of faithful love, — though shy, Told by an eloquent lip, a trustful eye, I feel the surges of a glad revulsion. Oh happy traitor to thyself, my friend! I triumph in thy love, and comprehend How we can lose ourselves, and never die. XXV 6itasol SK^BLOVKD ! (I but name thee as thou art) >*^' Why did I then look up ? My eyes met thine ; And 't is a pleasure when we stand apart To fix my gaze on thee, and see thee start; Yet fears arise which I cannot define — For all day long my being is subdued To one melodious strain, and in that mood I fall asleep, with music at my heart. XXVI TReaDs tor Minter *S|| STROLLED to-day along a country road. ^^ Through scrawny apple-trees — an orchard-lane- I saw a farmer's house, a warm abode Low-roofed and thrifty, — and near by a load Of wood piled neatly, sheltered from the rain ; And overhead the scudding clouds were black ; The hay was heaped in one enormous stack — And desolate the fields where it was mowed. XXVII 3Betorc Dapbteaft fflN yon dark cottage wakes anotker day, ^' For from tke window gleams a ligkt across The vacant yards, and silent pastures, gray Witk rime, and places deadlier cold than they — Where the thin willows fringe the ice-filmed foss. Beyond, a valley dim in vapory chill, — And patient trees that sentinel the hill Against the dawn, just glimmering far away. XXVIII jfirst Snow <^W^HB frost has traced its fairy-like designs ^Si^ Upon my window — fragile ferns in masses. A fall of snow has come by night, and shines Upon the floor of ice beneath the pines, And makes soft cushions of the tufted grasses. Around, up hill and down and out of sight, The forest stretches, pale in spectral light, And in its depths a mystery enshrines. XXIX Bternal %iU m HAT shall tlie end be? Must eacH one succumb Contentedly, and find his whole employment In serving one world-state? In masterdom Of art or science ? In the wearisome Pursuit and grasp of dull, mundane enjoyment? In other, grander lives my own shall lurk — But that is not enough ; so let me work To find the being that I shall become. XXX TOe 'Unircrral lUiU 3f^«^ T^y most thorough-going self -disgust ^^ I find m}' God, and if I set my teeth And wrestle with Him, thrust and connter-thmst, I touch a Being in \Miom I can trust, — WTio closes me around and undemeath- Slowl}' I struggle up to liberty By making His will mine — and finally I know He lores, because He is so just. XXXI Hspiratton 3|jlJHENCB comes this reaching upward, this desire, ■^^^^ Of holiness, that draws with godlike force? This thirst and hunger, when our hearts aspire To purity made perfect as by fire? The river cannot rise above its source ; And so our longings shall not be denied, But we shall live to see them gratified When borne aloft on wings that never tire. XXXII Zbc lEnb ot lEvoltttion 5T struggles on, blindfolded, old and bent, The pitiful, pathetic world — it groans, And raises to the sky its wild lament. And often in its wretched discontent It seems to dash itself against the stones. A strong young man who failed in his high aim And then abandoned hope — yet all the same Christ is the goal of his development. XXXIII Vn iparaMse SI TRUST that all good men v/ho lived of old, '^ And all who did or do their best, will hear In the mid world the truths that were not told Them here though eager — never wilful cold — And that they shall be painlessly made clear. Yet warmer grows the light through dewy air In still expectancy of morning, where Through centuries of calm, their souls unfold. XXXIV December ^^TO-NIGHT a tempest rages, but within ^fl^ The fire-light warms the room, and all in vain The north wind pauses in his blustering din To catch the flakes in air and make them spin More swiftly, hissing at the window-pane. He howls among the pines, he beats the walls, And gladly would he rush through desolate halls And make all dark where light and love had been. XXXV (JB^HB sun is bright, the chimes of Christmas ring — %2U The day that brings old friends to greet our eyes. But let us first our Christmas carols sing; Then from their hiding places will we bring The gifts, and watch each other's pleased surprise. Oh happy winter day! Its gladness cheers, Yet with a memory of by-gone years, — So chastened, be it long-continuing. XXXVl 13cUct ^i^i'.Kll'M'' is surely not so ditVionU— ^ "'^ This jovfnl season is a niiraclo, As is the Kuij;, harmonious result Throuv^h toiliuv; eeuturies ol' a foree iveult, I'Vlt — yet invisible, inaudible. Yes. 1 woulil lain believe, lor is the faith (.">( holy v>nes tln\>Ui;h av;es but a wraith In uhieh toilav sueh noble souls exult? XXXVII JSxvcvicncc /jjlr IVIC mc tcnipcsluons days of strife and stress, ^<^ With rai)id clKinj.a's IVom ^* Of God, so craved, so doubted, in this age? (The world is like a vast and shadowy wood, The haunt of all wild things, and to the good A place of strange and lonely pilgrimage). Yet God was glorified in raising us, And therefore rang that song melodious From heaven which angels sang, — they understood. XLVI 'Cbe TRllas ot Deliverance <^3pHB Lord of life is our deliverer ^fl^ From sin — lie makes us one witli righteousness In which our life is hid. When those who err In thickets of sharp thorn and juniper Look up to him for guidance, he will bless. The sunset glimmers through a deep ravine That parts the awful mountains, and between, A single star, to cheer the wanderer. XLVII TKflintcr iRetons Still (^k LITTLK wtile the earth must sleep, for so -^^^ The tyrannous winter bids, and thick and fast Come from the Norland gusty whirls of snow To fold the meadows — but it soon will go, It was a sudden storm, perhaps the last. The silent road goes winding to the town. And over it the elms bend meekly down. Pleased with the graceful shadows that they throw. XLVIII /l^arcb 3flT is the saddest montli of all the year, '^ Of weary waiting for the spring to break. Under the drenching rain the earth is drear, And through the streaming pane all things appear Like wavering reflections in a lake. And if the sunshine flitteth, faint and dim, The oak and beech-leaves still will sigh their hymn Of mournful retrospection in mine ear. XLIX DepcnDencc QAT seems that we are made less for our own ^ Than others' pleasure. What expressions wake Beneath our varying thoughts are watched and known By every eye that wills save ours alone — Hath any beauty? 'T is for others' sake. We move about this planet, sensitive To every motion round us, and we live As long as strength is left in us to moan. a SoUtuOe ot Sin ^W^HE torrent of his curse what force can stem, ^Zy What measure can determine his obliquity Who ruins others? Peace may come to them, And waves of ocean sigh their requiem, The victims whom he slew in his iniquity. For them and for himself he must account, And, till he fill the terrible amount, Through hopeless cycles must himself condemn. LI Zbc jfoUi? of MfcfteC)nes5 ^^ThAT fate shall theirs be that desire hell, ^J^ And all that love to grieve the heart of God? Shall they not have their wish? They know it well, They chose iniquity, there let them dwell. With smitten brain, delirious at the prod Of self-disgust, they grovel horribly In fits of unrepentant agony And longing for the past which they can never quell. LII H Maste ot Uorment ^iMTHERS there are puffed up with boastful pride, VJ>^ And some with hot, incestuous fire that maddens, Yet, in their state, is never satisfied; And some by desert winds blo\m far and wide, Whom fierce desire of torture stings and gladdens Yet impotently. "When their frantic wish Is unfulfilled, a frenzy devilish Drives them to vain attempts at suicide. LIII Zbc SbaC>ow ot a Gccat BreaD ^■S|H God, my God, have mercy on these men ^>J^ Who, as they gather knowledge, grow in sin I Have mercy on the world — it is a den Of writhing serpents, and the wild amen Of thy despairing people swells the din. The coming blackness makes the senses reel — And yet what hateful gratitude we feel To see the lurid sunset fade again ! LIV H Sounb ot Sprtna in tbe Hit fLONG for spring to come — no words can tell How glad my heart is wHen I find a fringe Of green by melting snow-banks in a dell. Tbe blades of grass are rising, cell by cell ; Aslant the lawn I catch a faint, fresh tinge. These frequent showers are for the new year's christening, And looking very far away, and listening, I hear the mellow tolling of a bell. LV XCo tbe 6reat Conqueror dwfk^ Victor over darkness, death, decay — VJ>^ Those livid phantoms baleful-eyed and frowning Whose foul corruption deadens with dismay The soul of man — his body is their prey. They drum in his ears while he is gasping, drowning : Oh Victor over that portentous will That massed itself against thee, conquer still, And lead us men to seek the cheerful day. LVl Bt BpentiOe QfflWHBN fades beyond tlie softly folding door ■^^^•^ The noisy world, and wlien tlie closing blind Sbuts out tbe ligbt of day forevermore, And wben tbe breaker dies upon the shore, At evening they may seek, but shall not find. For I shall stand above the little earth With hands outstretched, a soul of greater girth And of a stature loftier than before. Lvn Bearer to tbe Stars SpORD, I would follow thee, I too would flee ^^ The spirit-vexing world that brings disunion, The gibe and grin of those who cannot see Or understand — and hasten to the free And lonely places fit for rapt communion. To gain the tranquil strength that God instils On starlit slopes of broad Perasan hills — I^rdj let me follow, let me walk with thee! LVIII Sunligbt XTbrougb iRain 'VEN as a little one that droops and fears The task before him, thinks it hard, and cries Because it seems so dark — but when he hears How easy is the way, his visage clears And he begins to smile, with brimming eyes, — So I, who struggled with my wretchedness, A foolish child, now gratefully confess How light the burden is, with happy tears. LIX IRenewfng TTime ^k GAIN the goodness of His work has won ^^ A smile from God — the frosty nights that strove With light and warmth, are by that smile undone, And mists of sunny green have now begun Upon the stirring maples in the grove. It gladdens heart and eye to stand beneath The buds, each bursting from its ruddy sheath, And see them hold their little fingers to the sun. LX xrbe /IDarvel ot tbe Bew Xite Qtto^^HAT strange delight it is when spring returns ■%Wt^ To taste the oak-buds' nutty tea — to look Through sprouting woodland thickets 1 How one yearns To wrest the mystic secret from the ferns That rear their filmy crosiers by the brook ! Far off 1 see the dogwood's creamy pink, Through beds of withered leaves the violets wink, In my own life the blissful fever burns. LXI IRelease f THINK tliat it should be enough to spend The morning long in worship by a brook With many a rushy cove and lilied bend, Or in the woods, — yet I would not offend One trustful soul who cannot read that book. Yet let me walk upon the lonely beach Or on the hills — 't is there that I can reach Unvoiced communion with a steadfast friend. LXII H jfarewcll ^^T^IIOUGH tliou art far away, I love tliee still. ^Sjy upon a many-petalled nenuphar A (lew-drop glistened — it can do no ill To let it glisten — so I love thee still, Although thy love is now a setting star* It should not be — no pondering can tell AVliy it is so — yet I would not compel ; Thou hast not wronged me, and I love thee still. LXIII Morsbippers ot iiDtnD an& sense ^■ ^^ T times sweeps over me a high disdain ^^^ Of those who boastfully are destitute Of faith save in themselves ; their greatest gain A life of pleasure (disciplined and sane) — I cry against them, I cannot be mute. Rather than such a blindness, I would run In passion even to that guilty one Whose clenched fingers cut her palms for pain. LXIV H lRirer*valle^ tbrougb tDe Mil^erness 3| SEEK lier guidance o'er the stormy downs '^ Who offers me a cup unmixed and pure; Whose every act a faithful purpose crowns — Whose earnest voice no lowering thunder drowns, — 'T is full of comfort, bidding me endure. And at her touch I quiver through and through, It cools the brain and makes the pulses true; It carries healing into crowded towns. LXV H IDista in /ICiais 5] STOOD to-day within a bright arcade ^^ That on a sudden opened far before me; A breezy roof of green too light to shade The new growth underneath, on which there played A glory, scattered through the young leaves o'er me. And toward that light I turned — my steps were charmed, A glossy-winged bird rose up, alarmed. And glinted like a jewel down the sunny glade. LXVI a Summer Bvenino Sft^ ^[u'AIR islands of delight with golden brinks ^ Afloat in summer seas, by soft winds fanned; Soon fading as the ebbing daylight shrinks (Yet for a while the lingering sunset blinks Through drowsy forest-trees of fairy-land) — While the new moon, a silvery galleon, Steers in pursuit of the departed sun And skims along the trees, then downward sinks. LXVII Hsfs— Hpollo— Cbrist Sjj OT prostrate as before Egyptian fanes '^^"^ Of echoing silences and vast repose, — Nor looking out o'er Attic hills and plains While afternoon's last golden sunlight wanes Upon divine Ionic porticos, — But wrapped in solemn joy, with lifted hands, Where, flushed with dawn, a great cathedral stands, I am borne upon the heavenward-soaring strains. LXVIII a Safe anO tranquil Darboc OME WHERE I have a strongliold of belief Still unassailed by anguish or despair; As in a bouse made dark by loss and grief In some alcove stands out, in strong relief, A statue, ever calm and pure and fair. Or as a sbip (beneatb a tropic moon) Dreams on tbe bosom of a still lagoon, While the vexed billows roar beyond the reef. LXIX [mbat Deartc^weariness /iDeans SI AM glad, devoutly glad, tiiat I embraced >^ Eacli object as 't was offered, which I meant To satisfy my heart with, — that I chased Moth after moth with headlong, feverish haste, — That none of them when clutched could bring content. I am glad that every pastime soon would pall And drive me on, for being sick of all I found the living waters sweet to taste. LXX H IRetrospect 3J jJHBN I look back along my pathway — yes, "^^^^ Only a year ago — liow long it seems ! And I, a creature driven by distress, Whose strength is wasted by a sorceress, Who moans and tosses under haggard dreams. Even Nature now, who used me as her slave. Bewitched me, teased me with the love she gave, Is shy — and yet I do not love her less. LXXI Sbe Xoofts at ^e witb /iDeefter E^es Spi O longer as before does Nature mock ^^^ Witli lavish, lawless beauty flung abroad A soul where thousand voiceless raptures flock — But I can stand where mountain-chains unlock To make a cradle for the race of God. No longer now with senses all awhirl I watch the clear, impetuous plunge and swirl Of crystal breakers round a ledge of rock. LXXII (^k FTER a plunge and swim 't is good to lie ^f^ On bedded rockweed — feel the harmonies Of wafting wind and burning sun, and dry The skin v/ith fragrant bay-leaves, and so try To be as purely glad as Nature is. And when I cannot help it, if I would, But that I must cry out " My God, how good 1 " He is at hand, and loves to hear my cry. LXXIII Uqcs of iKarrenness ^^^HB sleep of systems on their whirling rim ^^ Empyreal eons throngh — the lifeless ocean- The agony of mountains — monsters grim That gorged and battened for an interim, And then the entombing glacier's cruel motion,- For labor with return so long dela3'-ed, For all His patient waiting, God is paid When but one loving spirit turns to Him. LXXIV jfaitb in Bbverslt^ mAY-weed and rabbit's-foot, so soft and wee, Fringe the dry roadside; and upon the stones Banked up in winter by tbe angr}'' sea The yellow primrose blossoms, the wild pea. And straggling sumach's juicy, crimson cones. Dear, patient plants, that weave your delicate flowers In spite of pitiless stones and scanty showers, Oh, may like hope and effort live in me! LXXV H promontory (^ WEATHER-BEATEN headland, bleak and lone, ^^^^ Round wliicli tliere roars all day the north-east storm ; Yet there some fishers' cottages are thrown, Red-stained, with groundward roofs all lichen-grown, Huddled like sheep together, to keep warm. Walled in with each a sterile little farm : And inland, up a winding, sheltered arm Of the sea, the skiffs are anchoring, leeward blown. LXXVI Zhc Copse on the /»arsb ^^\ LONELY spot, o'ergrown witli shrub and tree, ^^^ With wHispering oak and poplar and \vild-cl1err3' (Safe nesting-places where the birds may flee) — These ringed about with plants of less degree, As golden-rod, swamp-hemlock, huckleberry. Around, perpetual marshes stretch away; Yet there the breezy coppice, night and day, Repeats the long susurrus of the sea. LXXVII jfarcwell to Summer ^jS HE wild appeal of leaping billows tells ^^^ Of summer's end. From rifled ocean-caves The beach is strewn with barnacles and shells ; To-night the power of the moon dispels The flitting clouds, and lights the troubled waves. Among the rocks is left a peaceful pool, Its margin heaped with sea-weeds dark and cool, And there all night the moon's unruffled image dwells. LXXVIII Marmons SjJlJHBN in the soul no motions disagree "^^^"^ There comes a faitli that nothing can disturb. And even when man no longer loves — when he Befouls himself and falls — it still can see The sweeping of a stream that is superb. All else is superstition — Thou, O Christ, Art reason, — even through sin are we enticed, Nay, forced to closer fellowship with Thee. LXXIX passion anC) tlbouobt ^^^^HB world has entered on a grand domain ^Zy Of boundless thonglit — but that has not sufficed. In truth, it still is puny and in pain — Now let it grow in passion, till it gain The immortal, all-controlling calm of Christ, It will, for only so can it achieve Results that we as yet can scarce conceive : It must, unless it would become insane. LXXX IDaleMction SW^HATHVER paths my steps have been amid "^^^^ Were chosen for me, though I know not wh}^ But think 't was love compelling all I did. And yet (since I have done as I was bid) I shall be cursed by those that love a lie. But some may kiss this page. May they be blest 1 And then remember, dear ones — in the breast Of God Himself all poesy is hid. WAt 13 ibyy LIBRARY OF CONGRESS llllllllllllllllHllilllllllllllllll 018 477 441