DE PROFUNDIS.

Saints are like violets sweetest of their kind,

Bear in mind

This to-day. Then to-morrow:

All like roses rarer than the rarest,
All like lilies fairer than the fairest,

All like violets sweeter than we know;

Be it so,

To-morrow blots out sorrow.

DE PROFUNDIS.

OH why is heaven built so far,

Он

Oh why is earth set so remote ? I cannot reach the nearest star

That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.

I never watch the scattered fire

Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain :

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.

159

DOUBLE.

SORROW hath a double voice,

Sharp to-day, but sweet to-morrow: Wait in patience, hope, rejoice, Tried friends of sorrow.

Pleasure hath a double taste,

Sweet to-day, but sharp to-morrow: Friends of pleasure, rise in haste, Make friends with sorrow.

Pleasure set aside to-day

Comes again to rule to-morrow: Welcomed sorrow will not stay, Farewell to sorrow!

To meet, worth living for;
Worth dying for, to meet;
To meet, worth parting for,
Bitter forgot in sweet:

To meet, worth parting before

Never to part more.

THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

THERE'S no replying

To the Wind's sighing,

Telling, foretelling,

Dying, undying,

THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

Dwindling and swelling,
Complaining, droning,
Whistling and moaning,
Ever beginning,
Ending, repeating,
Hinting and dinning,
Lagging and fleeting -
We've no replying
Living or dying

To the Wind's sighing.

What are you telling,
Variable Wind-tone ?
What would be teaching,
O sinking, swelling,
Desolate Wind-moan?
Ever, for ever

Teaching and preaching,

Never, ah never

Making us wiser

The earliest riser
Catches no meaning,
The last who hearkens
Garners no gleaning

Of wisdom's treasure,
While the world darkens:

Living or dying,

In pain, in pleasure,

We've no replying

To wordless flying
Wind's sighing.

161

FLOWERS.

YOUNG girls wear flowers,
Young brides a flowery wreath,

But next we plant them

In garden plots of death. Whose lot is best:

The maiden's curtained rest,

Or bride's whose hoped-for sweet
May yet outstrip her feet?

Ah! what are such as these
To death's sufficing ease?

He sleeps indeed who sleeps in peace
Where night and morning meet.

Dear are the blossoms,

For bride's or maiden's head,

But dearer planted

Around our blessed dead.

Those mind us of decay

And joys that fade away,

These preach to us perfection,
Long love, and resurrection.
We make our graveyards fair
For spirit-like birds of air,
For Angels may be finding there

Lost Eden's own delection.

L'

THE LILY AND THE LAMB. 163

BRIEFNESS.

IGHT is our sorrow for it ends to-morrow, Light is our death which cannot hold us fast; So brief a sorrow can be scarcely sorrow,

Or death be death so quickly past.

One night, no more, of pain that turns to pleasure,
One night, no more, of weeping, weeping sore:
And then the heaped-up measure beyond measure,
In quietness for evermore.

Our face is set like flint against our trouble,
Yet many things there are which comfort us,
This bubble is a rainbow-colored bubble,
This bubble-life tumultuous.

Our sails are set to cross the tossing river,
Our face is set to reach Jerusalem :
We toil awhile, but then we rest forever,
Sing with all Saints and rest with them.

THE LILY AND THE LAMB.

THY lilies drink the dew,

Thy lambs the rill, and I will drink them too; For those in purity

And innocence are types, dear Lord, of Thee.

The fragrant lily flower

Bows and fulfils Thy Will its lifelong hour;

The lamb at rest and play

Fulfils Thy Will in gladness all the day;