A CHANT.

"Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini."

I.

CHO is the Angel that cometh?

Life!

Let us not question what he brings,
Peace or Strife;

Under the shade of his mighty wings,
One by one,

Are his secrets told;

One by one,

Lit by the rays of each morning sun,
Shall a new flower its petals unfold,
With the mystery hid in its heart of gold.
We will arise and go forth to greet him,
Singly, gladly, with one accord ;

"Blessed is he that cometh

In the name of the Lord!"

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II.

Who is the Angel that cometh ?

Joy!

Look at his glittering rainbow wings,-
No alloy

Lies in the radiant gifts he brings;

Tender and sweet,

He is come to-day,

Tender and sweet:

While chains of love on his silver feet
Will hold him in lingering fond delay.
But greet him quickly, he will not stay,

Soon he will leave us; but though for others All his brightest treasures are stored,"Blessed is he that cometh

In the name of the Lord!"

III.

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Pain!

Let us arise and go forth to greet him ;
Not in vain

Is the summons come for us to meet him;
He will stay,

And darken our sun;
He will stay

A desolate night, a weary day.

Since in that shadow our work is done, And in that shadow our crowns are won, Let us say still, while his bitter chalice Slowly into our hearts is poured, "Blessed is he that cometh

In the name of the Lord!”

IV.

Who is the Angel that cometh ?

Death!

But do not shudder and do not fear ;
Hold your breath,

For a kingly presence is drawing near.
Cold and bright

Is his flashing steel,
Cold and bright

The smile that comes like a starry light
To calm the terror and grief we feel;
He comes to help and to save and heal :

Then let us, baring our hearts and kneeling, Sing, while we wait this Angel's sword, "Blessed is he that cometh

In the name of the Lord!"

DREAM-LIFE.

ISTEN, friend, and I will tell you
Why I sometimes seem so glad,
Then, without a reason changing,
Soon become so grave and sad.

Half my life I live a beggar,
Ragged, helpless, and alone;
But the other half a monarch,

With my courtiers round my throne.

Half my life is full of sorrow,

Half of joy, still fresh and new ;
One of these lives is a fancy,
But the other one is true.

While I live and feast on gladness,
Still I feel the thought remain,
This must soon end, nearer, nearer,
Comes the life of grief and pain.

While I live a wretched beggar,

One bright hope my lot can cheer; Soon, soon, thou shalt have thy kingdom, Brighter hours are drawing near.

So you see my life is twofold,
Half a pleasure, half a grief;
Thus all joy is somewhat tempered,
And all sorrow finds relief.

Which, you ask me, is the real life,
Which the dream, the joy, or woe?

Hush, friend! it is little matter,
And, indeed I never know.

REST.

PREAD, spread thy silver wings, O

Dove!

And seek for rest by land and sea,

And bring the tidings back to me

For thee and me and those I love.

Look how my Dove soars far away;
Go with her, heart of mine, I pray ;
Go where her fluttering silver pinions
Follow the track of the crimson day.

Is rest where cloudlets slowly creep,
And sobbing winds forget to grieve,
And quiet waters gently heave,
As if they rocked the ship to sleep?

Ah no! that southern vapor white
Will bring a tempest ere the night,
And thunder through the quiet heaven,
Lashing the sea in its angry might.

The battle-field lies still and cold,
While stars that watch in silent light
Gleam here and there on weapons bright,
In weary sleepers' slackened hold;

Nay, though they dream of no alarm,
One bugle sound will stir that calm,
And all the strength of two great nations,
Eager for battle, will rise and arm.

Pause where the Pilgrims' day is done,
Where scrip and staff aside are laid,
And, resting in the silent shade,
They watch the slowly sinking sun.

Ah no! that worn and weary band
Must journey long before they stand,
With bleeding feet, and hearts rejoicing,
Kissing the dust of the Holy Land.

Then find a soul who meets at last
A noble prize but hard to gain,
Or joy long pleaded for in vain,
Now sweeter for a bitter past.

Ah no! for Time can rob her yet,
And even should cruel Time forget,
Then Death will come, and, unrelenting,
Brand her with sorrowful long regret.

Seek farther, farther yet, O Dove!
Beyond the Land, beyond the Sea,
There shall be rest for thee and me,
For thee and me and those I love.
I heard a promise gently fall,
I heard a far-off Shepherd call
The weary and the broken-hearted,
Promising rest unto each and all.