WHEN THE NIGHT AND MORNING MEET.

In the dark and narrow street,

Into a world of woe,
Where the tread of many feet

Went trampling to and fro,

A child was born-speak low!When the night and morning meet.

Full seventy summers back
Was this; so long ago,
The feet that wore the track
Are lying straight and low;
Yet hath there been no lack
Of passers to and fro.

Within the narrow street

This childhood ever played;
'Beyond the narrow street
This manhood never strayed;
This age sat still and prayed
Anear the trampling feet.

The tread of ceaseless feet

Flowed through his life, unstirred By waters' fall, or fleet

Wind music, or the bird
Of morn; these sounds are sweet,
But they were still unheard.

Within the narrow street
I stood beside a bed,
I held a dying head,

When the night and morning meet;
And every word was sweet,

Though few the words we said.

And as we talked, dawn drew To-day; the world was fair In fields afar, I knew;

Yet spoke not to him there Of how the grasses grew, Besprent with dewdrops rare.

We spoke not of the sun,

Nor of this green earth fair; This soul, whose day was done, Had never claimed its share In these, and yet its rare Rich heritage had won.

From the dark and narrow street,
Into a world of love

A child was born-speak low!—
Speak reverent, for we know

Not how they speak above, When the night and morning meet.

THE SOUL'S PARTING.

SHE sat within Life's Banquet Hall at noon,
When word was brought unto her secretly,
"The Master cometh onward quickly; soon
Across the threshold He will call for thee."
Then she rose up to meet Him at the door,
But turning, courteous, inade 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
I 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

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 name arose
E'en in my sleep, and sweeter than the close
Of music was thy voice; for thou wert sent
To lead me homeward 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 crossed o'er with Love.

SONNETS.

THEY who from mountain-peaks have gazed upon
The wide, illimitable heavens, have said,
That, still receding as they climbed, outspread,
The blue vauit deepens over them, and one
By one drawn farther back, each starry sun
Shoots down a feebler splendor overhead.
So, Saviour, as our mounting spirits, led
Along Faith's living way to Thee, have won
A nearer access, up the difficult track

Still pressing, on that rarer atmosphere,
When low beneath us flits the cloudy rack,
We see Thee drawn within a widening sphere
Of glory, from us farther, farther back-
Yet it is then because we are more near.

Too long have I, methought, with tearful eye
Pored o'er this tangled work of mine, and mused
Above each stitch awry and thread confused;
Now will I think on what in years gone by
I heard of them that weave rare tapestry
At royal looms, and how they constant use
To work on the rough side, and still peruse
The pictured pattern set above them high:
So will I set MY COPY high above,

And gaze and gaze till on my spirit grows, Its gracious impress-till some line of love,

Transferred upon my canvas, faintly glows; Nor look too much on warp or woof, provide He whom I work for sees their fairer side!

DREAM-LAND.

WHERE Sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmèd sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far,

To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water-springs.

Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest

Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,

The purple land.

She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain

Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;

Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake,
Night that no morn shall break,
Till joy shall overtake

Her perfect peace.

AT HOME.

WHEN I was dead, my spirit turned
To seek the much-frequented house;
I passed the door, and saw my friends

Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat:
Said one,
"To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands,
And coasting miles and miles of sea."
Said one,
"Before the turn of tide,
We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
Said one, "To-morrow shall be like
To-day, but much more sweet."

To-morrow," ," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way; "To-morrow," cried they, one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I, had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
No chill across the table-cloth;
I, all forgotten, shivered, sad

To stay, and yet to part how loath!

I passed from the familiar room,
I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
That tarrieth but a day.

A TRIAD.

THREE sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who, soft and smooth as

snow,

Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show; And one was blue with famine after love, Who, like a harp-string snapped, rang harsh and low

The burden of what those were singing of.

One shamed herself in love; one temperately

Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife; One famished, died for love. Thus two of three

Took death for love and won him after strife; One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee: All on the threshold, yet all short of life.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lis; Because the birthday of my life

Is come-my love is come to me.

REMEMBER.

REMEMBER me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more, day by day,

You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then, or pray. Yet, if you should forget me for a while

And afterward remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile, Than that you should remember and be sad.

THREE SEASONS.

"A CUP for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.

" A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words! and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.

"A cup for memory!"

Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up, and moan Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love:

Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray, And solitary dove.

649

"THE LOVE OF CHRIST WHICH PASSETH KNOWLEDGE.”

I BORE with thee long weary days and nights, Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;

I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights, For three-and-thirty years.

Who else had dared for thee what I have dared?

I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;

I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared:
Give thou Me love for love.

For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,

For thee I trembled in the nightly frost: Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth : Why wilt thou still be lost?

I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced!
Men only marked upon My shoulders borne
The branding cross, and shouted hungry-voiced,
Or wagged their heads in scorn.

Thee did nails grave upon My hands; thy

name

Did thorns for frontlets stamp between mine eyes:

I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame-
I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.

A thief upon My right hand and My left;
Six hours alone, athirst, in misery;

At length in death one smote My heart, and cleft

A hiding-place for thee.

Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep:

So did I win a kingdom-share My crown;
A harvest-come and reap.