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With queenly motions of a bridal mood,

through the wide spaces of infinitude.

Ellis Gray.


I Sat in a darkened chamber,

Near by sang a tiny bird; Through all my deep pain and sadness,

A wonderful song I heard.

The birdling bright sang in the sunlight

From out of a golden throat;
The song of love he was singing
Grew sweeter with every note.

I opened my casement wider
To welcome the song I heard;

Straight into my waiting bosom
Flew sunshine and song and bird.

No longer I now am sighing;

The reason canst thou divine? The birdling with me abideth,

And sunshine and song are mine.

Dora Greenwell.


Tim, the slow daylight pale, A willing slave, fast bound to one above,

I wait; he seems to speed, and change, and fail; I know he will not move.

I lift my golden orb To his, unsmittcn when the roses die, And in my broad and burning disk absorb

The splendors of his eye.

His eye is like a clear Keen flame that searches through

me; I must drop Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his sphere; To mine he cannot stoop.

I win not my desire, And yet I fail not of my guerdon; lo! A thousand flickering darts and tongues of fire

Around me spread and glow;

All rayed and crowned, I miss No queenly state until the summer wane,

The hours flit by; none knoweth of my bliss, And none has guessed my pain;

I follow one alone, I track the shadow of his steps, I grow

Most like to him I love,

Of all that shines below.

Frances Ridley Havergal.


Autoriography! So you say,

So do I not believe! For no men or women that live today,

Be they as good or as bad as they may,

Ever would dare to leave In faintest pencil or boldest ink, All they truly and really think; What they have said and what they

have done. What they have lived and what they have felt, Under the stars or under the sun. At the touch of a pen the dewdrops melt, And the jewels are lost in the grass. Though you count the blades as you pass.

At the touch of a pea the lightning is fixed,

An innocent streak on a broken


And the thunder that pealed so fierce and loud, With musical echo is softly mixed. Autobiography? No! It never was written yet, I trow. Grant that they try! Still they must fail! Words are too pale. For the fervor and glow of the lavaflow.

Can they paint the flash of an


How much less the flash of a heart,
Or its delicate ripple and glimmer

and gleam.
Swift and sparkling, suddenly dark-

Crimson and gold tints, exquisite

soul-tin ts, Changing like dawn-flush touching a dream! Where is the art That shall give the play of blending lights

From the porphyry rock on the pool below? Or the bird-shadow traced on the sunlit heights Of golden rose and snow?

You say 'tis a fact that the books exist,

Printed and published in Mudie's list,

Some in two volumes, and some in one —

Autobiographies plenty. But look!
I will tell you what is done
By the writers, confidentially!

They cut little pieces out of their lives

And join them together. Making them up as a readable book,

And call it an autobiography, Though little enough of the life survives.

What if we went in the sweet May weather

To a wood that I know which hangs on a hill,

And reaches down to a tinkling brook,

That sings the flowers to sleep at night,

And calls them again with the earliest light.

Under the delicate flush of green.

Hardly shading the bank below, Pale anemones peep between The mossy slumps where the violets grow; Wide clouds of bluebells stretch away,

And primrose constellations rise,—

Turn where we may, Some new loveliness meets our eyes.

The first white butterflies flit around. Bees are murmuring close to the ground,

The cuckoo's happy shout is heard.

Hark again! Was it echo, or was it bird? All the air is full of song, A carolling chorus around and above: From the w ocd-pigtcn's call so soft

and long, To merriest twitter and marvellous trill,

Every one sings at his own sweet will.

True to the key-note of joyous love.

Well, it is lovely! is it not? But we must not stay on the fairy spot,

So we gather a nosegay with care: A primrose here and a bluebell there,

And something that we have never seen,

Probably therefore a specimen rare;

Stitchwort, with stem of transparent green,

The white-veined woodsorrel, and a spray

Of tender-leaved and budding May. We carry home the fragrant load. In a close, warm hand, by a dusty road;

The sun grows hotter every hour; Already the woodsorrel pines for the shade;

We watch it fade, And throw away the fairy little flower;

We forgot that it could not last an hour

Away from the cool moss where it grows.

Then the stitch worts droop and close; There is nothing to show but a tangle of green,

For the white-rayed stars will no more be seen.

Then the anemones, can they survive?"

Even now they are hardly alive.
Ha! where is it, our unknown spray?

Dropped on the way! Perhaps we shall never find one again.

At last we come in with the few that are left,

Of freshness and fragrance bereft; A sorry display. Now, do we say, "Here is the wood where we rambled to-day?

See, we have brought it to you;
Believe us, indeed it is true.
This is the wood!" do we say?

So much for the bright and pleasant side.

There is another. We did not bring
All that was hidden under the wing
Of the radiant plumaged spring.

We never tried
To spy. or watch, or away to bear,
much that was just as truly there.

What have we seen?

Hush, ah, hush!
Curled and withered fern between,
And dead leaves under the living

Thick and damp. A clammy feather,
All that remains of a singing thrush
Killed by a weasel long ago,
In the hungry winter weather.
Nettles in unfriendly row,
And last year's brambles, sharp and

Grimly guarding a hawthorn crown.
A pale leaf trying to reach the light
By a long weak stem, but smothered

Dying in darkness, with none to see. The rotting trunk of a willow tree, Leafless, ready to fall from the bank; A poisonous fungus, cold and white, And a hemlock growing strong and rank.

A tuft of fur and a ruddy stain,
Where a wounded hare has escaped

the snare.
Only perhaps to be caught again.
No specimens we bring of these,
Lest they should disturb our ease,
And spoil the story of the May,
And make you think our holiday
Was far less pleasant than we say.

Ah no! We write our lives indeed,
But in a cipher none can read,
Except the author. He may pore
The life-accumulating lore

For evermore, And find the records strange and true,

Bring wisdom old and new;
But though he break the seal,
No power has he to give the key;
No license to reveal.
We wait the all-declaring day,
When love shall know as it is

Till then, the secrets of our lives are ours and God's alone.


Light after darkness,

Gain after loss. Strength after suffering,

Crown after cross. Sweet after bitter,

Song after sigh, Home after wandering,

Praise after cry.

Sheaves after sowing,

Sun after rain, Sigh after mystery,

Peace after pain. Joy after sorrow,

Calm after blast, Rest after weariness,

Sweet rest at last.

Near after distant.

Gleam after gloom, Love after loneliness,

Life after tomb. After long agony.

Rapture of bliss! Riyht was the pathway

Leading to this!


'Tis not stringing rhymes together

In a pleasant true accord; Not the music of the metre, Not the happy fancies, sweeter Than a flower-bell, honey-stored.

'T is the essence of existence,

Rarely rising to the light; And the songs of echo longest, Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest, With your life-blood you will write.

With your life-blood. None will know it,

You will never tell them how. Smile! and they will never guess it: Laugh! and you will not confess it

By your paler cheek and brow.

There must be the tightest tension

Ere the tone be full and true;
Shallow lakelets of emotion
Are not like the spirit-ocean,
Which reflects the purest blue.

Every lesson you shall utter,

If the charge indeed be yours. First is gained by earnest learning, Carved in letters deep and burning On a heart that long endures.

Day by day that wondrous tablet
Your life-poem shall receive,

By the hand of Joy or Sorrow;

But the pen can never borrow
Half the records that they leave.

You will only give a transcript
of a life-line here and there,
Only just a spray-wreath springing
From the hidden depths, and flinging
Broken rainbows on the air.

Still, if you but copy truly.

'T will be poetry indeed. Echoing many a heart's vibration; Rather love than admiration

Earning as your priceless meed.


Sunshine and silence on the Col de Balm!

I stood above the mists, above the rush

Of all the torrents, when one marvellous hush

Filled God's great mountain temple, vast and calm.

With hallelujah light, as seen through silent psalm: —

Crossed with one discord, only one. For love

Cried out, and would be heard.

"If ye were here, O friends, so far away and yet so


Then were the anthem perfect!"

And the cry Threaded the concords of that Alpine


Not vain the same fond cry if first I


Upon the mountain of our God, and long.

Even in the glory and with His

new song Upon my lips, that you should come

and share The bliss of heaven, imperfect still

till all are there.

Dear ones! shall it be mine to watch you come Up from the shadows and the valley mist.

To tread the jacinth and the amethyst;

To rest and sing upon the stormless height.

In the deep calm of love and everlasting light?

Paul Hamilton Hayne.


'Tis the part of a coward to brood O'er the past that is withered and dead:

What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled?

Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead,

whence the voice of an angel thrills

clear on the soul, "Gird about thee thine armor, press

on to the goal!"

If the faults or the crimes of thy youth

Are a burden too heavy to bear, What hope can rebloom on the desolate waste

Of a jealous and craven despair?

Down! down with the fetters of fear!

In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise,

With the faith that illumes and the will that defies.

Too late! through God's infinite world,

From His throne to life's nethermost fires, Too late is a phantom that flies at the dawn

Of the soul that repents and aspires.

If pure thou hast made thy desires.

There's no height the strong wings of immortals may ga!n

Which in striving to reach, thou shalt strive for in vain.

Then up to the contest with fate. Unbound by the past which is dead!

What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the hearts music be fled?

Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead;

And sublime as the angel that rules

in the sun Beams the promise of peace when the

conflict is won!

George Herbert.


Teach me, my God and King,

In all things Thee to see, And what I do in anything,

To do it as for Thee.

All may of Thee partake;

Nothing can be so mean which with this tincture, for Thy sake,

Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause

Makes drudgery divine: Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,

Makes that and the action fine.

Aaron Hill.


TENDEK-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;

Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains.

'Tis the same with common natures:
Use them kindly, they rebel;

But be rough as nutmeg-graters,
And the rogues obey you well.



I Am an Idle reed;
I rustle in the whispering air;

I bear my stalk and seed Through spring-time's glow and summer's glare.

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