Not by the frost of winter was she driven
Away, like others; nor by summer-heats;

But through a perfect gentleness, instead.
Far from the lamp of her meek lowly head
Such an exceeding glory went up hence
That it woke wonder in the eternal sire,
Until a sweet desire

Entered Him for that lovely excellence,
So that He bade her to Himself aspire;
Counting this weary and most evil place.
Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.
Wonderfully out of the beautiful form

Soar'd her clear spirit, waxing glad the while;
And is in its first home, there where it is
Who speaks thereot and feels not the tears warm
Upon his face, must have become so vile
As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.
Out upon him! an abject wretch like this

May not imagine anything of her,

He needs no bitter tears for his relief.
But sighing comes, and grief

And the desire to find no comforter,

(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief,) To him who for a while turns in his thought How she hath been among us, and is not.

With sighs my bosom always laboureth
In thinking, as I do continually,

Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;

And very often when I think of death,

Such a great inward longing comes to me That it will change the colour of my face; And, if the idea settles in its place,

All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit;
(Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,
I do become so spent

That I go forth, lest folks misdoubt of it.
(Afterwards, calling with a sore lament
On Beatrice, I ask, "Canst thou be dead?"

And calling on her, I am comforted.)

Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,
Come to me now whene'er I am alone;

So that I think the sight of me gives pain.
And what my life hath been, that living dies,
Since for my lady the New Birth's begun,
I have not any language to explain.

And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,
I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.

All joy is with my bitter life at war;

Yea, I am fallen so far

That all men seem to say, "Go out from us,"
Eyeing my cold white lips how dead they are
But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,
Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.

A gentle thought there is will often start,
Within my secret self, to speech of thee;

Also of love it speaks so tenderly

That much in me consents and takes its part.
"And what is this," the soul saith to the heart,
"That cometh thus to comfort thee and me,
And thence where it would dwell, thus potently
Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art?"
And the heart answers: "Be no more at strife
'Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love's messenger,

And speaketh but his words, from him received;
And all the strength it owns and all the life

It draweth from the gentle eyes of her

Who, looking on our grief, hath often grieved."

MY AIN COUNTREE

MARY LEE DEMAREST

"But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly."

I'm far frae my hame, and I'm weary aftenwhiles,

For the langed-for hame-bringing and my father's welcome

smiles;

I'll ne'er be fu' content, until my een doth see

The shining gates o' heaven and my ain countree.

The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony-tinted fresh an' gay, The birdies warble blythely, for my father made them sae; But these sights and these sounds will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

I've his gude word of promise that some gladsome day the King
To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring:
W'een and wi' hearts runnin' owre we shall see

The King in his beauty in our ain countree.

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine ee,
When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast;
For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me,
And carries them himsel' to his ain countree.

He is faithfu' that hath promised, he'll surely come again,
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken:
But he bids me still to wait, an' ready ay to be,
To gang at ony moment, to my ain countree.

So I'm watchin' aye, an' singin' o' my hame as I wait,
For the soundin' o' his footfa' this side the shinin' gate,
God gie his grace to ilk ane who listens noo to me,
That we may a' gang in gladness to our ain countree.

CHARTLESS

EMILY DICKINSON

I never saw a moor

I never saw the sea

Yet know I what the heather is like

And what a wave must be.

I never talked with God,

I never visited in heaven
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.

THE CHILD'S QUESTION

EMILY DICKINSON

Will there really be a morning?
Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?
Has it feathers like a bird?

Does it come from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar, Oh, some sailor,
Oh, some wise man from the skies,
Please to tell a little pilgrim

Where the place called morning lies?

O PARADISE! O PARADISE!

O Paradise!

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER

O Paradise!

Who doth not crave for rest?

Who would not seek the happy land,
Where they that loved are blest;
Where loyal hearts and true,
Stand ever in the light,

All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight?

O Paradise! O Paradise!

The world is growing old;

Who would not be at rest and free

Where love is never cold;

Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,

All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight?

O Paradise! O Paradise!

I want to sin no more;
I want to be as pure on earth
As on thy spotless shore;
Where loyal hearts and true,
Stand ever in the light,

All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight.

Lord Jesus, Light of Paradise,

Shine on my whole life long,
In all earth's din cause me to hear
Faint fragments of that song,
Where loyal hearts and true,
Stand ever in the light,
All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight.

VISION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT

ISAIAH, CHAP. LXIII

From Moulton's Modern Reader's Bible

(Chorus of Watchmen)

Who is this that cometh from Edom,

With crimsoned garments from Bozrah? This that is glorious in his apparel, Marching in the greatness of his strength?

(He who cometh)

I that speak in righteousness,

Mighty to save.