Introductory material (continued 2)

1901. Upon her woman's head earth's richest crown Hath sat with grace these sixty years and more. Her hand, her slender woman's hand, hath held The weightiest sceptre, held it with such power All homage hath been hers, at home, abroad, Where'er hath dwelt a chivalrous regard For strength of purpose and for purity, For grand achievement and for noble aim. To-day the cares of State no longer vex; To-day the crown is laid from off her brow. Dead! The great heart of her no more will beat With tenderness for all beneath her rule. Dead! The clear eyes of her no more will guard The nation's welfare. Dead! The arm of her No more will strike a mighty blow for right And justice; make a wide world stand amazed That one so gentle as old England's Queen Could be so fearless and so powerful! Full wearily the sense of grief doth press And weight us down. The good Queen is no more; And we are fain to weep as children weep When greedy death comes to the home and bears From thence the mother, whose unfailing love Hath been their wealth, their safeguard, and their pride. O bells that toll in every zone and clime! There is a sound of sobbing in your breath. East, west, north, south, the solemn clamor goes, Voicing a great, a universal grief!

THANKFULNESS. I thank Thee, Lord, For every joyous hour That has been mine! For every strengthening and helpful word, For every tender sound that I have heard, I thank Thee, Lord! I thank Thee, Lord, For work and weariness That have been mine! For patience toward one groping toward the light, For mid-day burden and for rest of night, I thank Thee, Lord.

THE NATIVE BORN. There's a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long, And the summer winds are blowing, and the summer sun is strong, When the orchards and the meadows throw their fragrance on the air, When the grain-fields flaunt their riches, and the glow is everywhere. Something sings it all the day, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada! There's a thing we love to think of when the frost and ice and snow Hold high carnival together, and the biting north winds blow. There's a thing we love to think of through the bitter winter hours, For it stirs a warmth within us—'tis this fair young land of ours. Something sings it all the day, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada! Ours with all her youth and promise, ours with all her strength and might, Ours with all her mighty waters and her forests deep as night. Other lands may far outshine her, boast more charms than she can claim, But this young land is our own land, and we love her very name. Something sings it all the day, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada! Let the man born in old England love the dear old land the most, For what spot a man is born in, of that spot he's fain to boast; Let the Scot look back toward Scotland with a longing in his eyes, And the exile from old Erin think her green shores paradise, Native born are we, are we, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada! Well we love that sea-girt island, and we strive to understand All the greatness, all the grandeur, of the glorious Mother Land; And we cheer her to the skies, cheer her till the echoes start, For the old land holds our homage, but the new land holds our heart! Native born are we, are we, Canada, fair Canada! And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

THE KING'S GIFT. TO E. S. R. The new year coming to us with swift feet Is the King's gift, And all that in it lies Will make our lives more rounded and complete. It may be laughter, May be tear-filled eyes; It may be gain of love, Or loss of love; It may be thorns, or bloom and breath of flowers, The full fruition of these hopes that move— It may be what will break these hearts of ours, What matter? 'Tis the great gift of the King— We do not need to fear what it may bring.

THE PASSAGE. O soul on God's high seas! the way is strange and long, Yet fling your pennons out, and spread your canvas strong; For though to mortal eyes so small a craft you seem, The highest star in heaven cloth lend you guiding gleam. O soul on God's high seas! look to your course with care, Fear most when winds are kind and skies are blue and fair. Your helm must sway at touch of no hand save your own— The soul that sails on God's high seas must sail alone. O soul on God's high seas! sail on with steady aim, Unmoved by winds of praise, untouched by seas of blame. Beyond the lonely ways, beyond the guiding star, There stretches out the strand and golden harbor bar.

AIR CASTLES. I built a castle in the air— A radiant thing made out of dreams; Love's dear desire its golden stair— Naught heavier than a hope was there— A thing of mist and rainbow gleams. But when it fell—ah! when it fell, Though made o' dreams and mist and shine, The mystery of it who can tell? Its falling shook both heaven and hell, And ground to dust this heart of mine.

YOUTH AND JUNE. I was your lover long ago, sweet June, Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still, And follow gladly to the wondrous tune You pipe on golden reeds to vale and hill. I am your lover still—to me you seem To hold the fragrance of the joys long dead— The brightness and the beauty of the dream We dreamed in youth—to hold the tears we shed, The laughter of our lips—the faith that lies Back in that season dear to every heart, Life's springtime, when God's earth and God's blue skies Are, measured by our glance, not far apart.

THE MOTHER. As "Peace on earth!" the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn, "Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ is born!" As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring, As harpers strike their harps of gold and "Glory! Glory!" sing, Upon the City's threshold fair A woman steps, and lingers there. The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim, "Tell Christ," she says, "a mother waits who fain would speak with Him." Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float; And hearing it, straight from His throne Comes down to her the Kingly One With shining face and eyes that hold Such wealth of love and peace, She feels her trembling heart grow bold, Her doubt and grieving cease. "Dear Lord!" she cries, and lowly kneels, "I have a prayer to make; O do Thou hear and answer it for Thine own mercy's sake, Since heaven will not seem fair to me If one dear face I may not see. "Dear Christ, a mother's love is great To shield, to guide, to watch, to wait. The last kiss that I gave on earth was to my wayward son, Whose soul, though deeply stainèd by sin, may yet by love be won To penitence, to higher walk, to purer, holier way; O wilt Thou let me to go to him and guard him night and day? "Thou wert a babe in Bethlehem, a mother guarded Thee. I pray Thee now, for her dear sake, to hearken unto me! Remember how she held Thee close, and crooned Thee, sweet and low, The lullabies that mothers sang long centuries ago, And bared her snowy breast to Thee, And stroked Thy forehead tenderly. "And kissed Thee oft, and told herself, again and yet again, To hold Thee thus one hour outweighed the travail and the pain! Dear Christ, this city is most fair; its glories thrill and move; O doth it grieve Thee that my heart cleaves to an earthly love? That on mine eyes heaven's beauties dim Because my heart is back with him? "With him—the wandering son of mine, the wayward one—whose need Of patient love and guiding hand is very great indeed! Think not I love Thee not, dear Lord, nor long for heaven's rest; 'Tis only that the mother-heart throbs fiercely in my breast. On this glad morning of Thy birth, O grant me leave to visit earth!" Lo! on her head she feels the touch of tender wounded hand, "Fear not," she hears, "a love like thine the Christ can understand. No mother prays in vain to Me on this day of the year, For when the faltering words she speaks fall on My waiting ear, I do remember that My cheek Lay on a bosom warm, I do remember Bethlehem, And Mary's cradling arm."

LOVE'S LESSON. One lesson let us bear in mind— Be very gentle with our own, Be to their faults a little blind, Nor wound them by a look or tone. Put self behind! turn tender eyes; Keep back the words that hurt and sting; We learn, when sorrow makes us wise, Forbearance is the grandest thing. Be patient lest some day we turn Our eyes on loved one fast asleep, And whisper, as we lean and yearn, "How often I have made you weep! "Some loved you not and words let fall That must have piercèd your gentle breast, But I, who loved you best of all, Hurt you far more than all the rest." One lesson let us keep in mind— To hold our dear ones close and fast, Since loyal hearts are hard to find, And life and love so soon are past.

IMMORTALITY. The fluttering leaves above his grave, The grasses creeping toward the light, The flowers fragile, sweet, and brave, That hide the earth clods from our sight, The swelling buds on shrub and tree, The golden gleam of daffodil, The violet blooming fair and free Where late the winds blew harsh and chill, The lily lifting up its breath Where snowdrifts spread but yesterday— All cry: "Where is thy sting, O death? O grave, where is thy victory?" Each Eastertide the old world sings Her anthem sweet and true and strong, And all the tender growing things Join in her resurrection song.

AUGUST. God in His own right hand doth take each day— Each sun-filled day—each rare and radiant night, And drop it softly on the earth and say: "Touch earth with heaven's own beauty and delight."

A SONG OF HARVEST HOME. Praise God for blessings great and small, For garden bloom and orchard store, The crimson vine upon the wall, The green and gold of maples tall, For harvest-field and threshing-floor! Praise God for children's laughter shrill, For clinging hands and tender eyes, For looks that lift and words that thrill, For friends that love through good and ill, For home, and all home's tender ties! Praise God for losses and for gain, For tears to shed, and songs to sing, For gleams of gold and mists of rain, For the year's full joy, the year's deep pain, The grieving and the comforting!

THE USURER. Fate says, and flaunts her stores of gold, "I'll loan you happiness untold. What is it you desire of me?" A perfect hour in which to be In love with life, and glad, and good, The bliss of being understood, Amid life's cares a little space To feast your eyes upon a face, The whispered word, the love-filled tone, The warmth of lips that meet your own, To-day of Fate you borrow; In hunger of the heart, and pain, In loneliness, and longing vain, You pay the debt to-morrow! Prince, let grim Fate take what she will Of treasures rare, of joys that thrill, Enact the cruel usurer's part, Leave empty arms and hungry heart, Take what she can of love and trust, Take all life's gladness, if she must, Take meeting smile and parting kiss— The benediction and the bliss. What then? The fairest thing of all Is ours, O Prince, beyond recall— Not even Fate would dare to seize Our store of golden memories.

MIRACLES. Love met a worldling on the way, And softly crept into his breast. Straight Self and Greed refused to stay Where Love had dared to make his nest. Love met a mourner on the road, And said: "I'll bear thee company." Full soon the mourner lost his load Of grief, and care, and misery. Into a grim and cheerless home Love forced his way through barriers tall; Fled wretchedness, and chill, and gloom— The golden sunshine flooded all.

PEACE. Unbroken peace, I ween, is sweeter far Than reconciliation. Love's red scar, Though salved with kiss of penitence, and tears, Remains, full oft, unhealed through all the years.

LIFE'S GRANDEST THINGS. What is the greatest work of all? The work that comes every day; The work that waits us on ev'ry hand Is work that, for us, is truly grand, And the love of work is our pay. What is the highest life of all? It is living, day by day, True to ourselves and true to the right, Living the truth from dawn till the night, And the love of truth for our pay. What is the grandest thing of all— Is it winning Heaven some day? No, and a thousand times say no; 'Tis making this old world thrill and glow With the sun of love till each shall know Something of Heaven here below, And God's well done for our pay.

STRENGTH. Write on Life's tablet all things tender, great and good, Uncaring that full oft thou art misunderstood. Interpretation true is foreign to the throng That runs and reads; heed not its praise or blame. Be strong! Write on with steady hand, and, smiling, say, "'Tis well!" If when thy deeds spell Heaven The rabble read out Hell.

THE TIME AND THE DEED. Art going to do a kindly deed? 'Tis never too soon to begin; Make haste, make haste, for the moments speed, The world, my dear one, has pressing need Of your tender thought and kindly deed. 'Tis never too soon to begin. But if the deed be a selfish one, 'Tis ever too soon to begin; If some heart will be sorer when all is done, Put it off! put it off from sun to sun, Remembering always, my own dear one, 'Tis ever too soon to begin.

DISCONTENT. My soul spoke low to Discontent: Long hast thou lodged with me, Now, ere the strength of me is spent, I would be quit of thee. Thy presence means revolt, unrest, Means labor, longing, pain; Go, leave me, thou unwelcome guest, Nor trouble me again. I longed for peace—for peace I cried; You would not let her in; No room was there for aught beside The turmoil and the din. I longed for rest, prayed life might yield Soft joy and dear delight; You urged me to the battlefield, And flung me in the fight. We two part company to-day. Now, ere my strength be spent, I open wide my doors and say: "Begone, thou Discontent!" Then something strong and sweet and fair Rose up and made reply: Who gave you the desire to dare And do the right? 'Twas I. The coward soul craves pleasant things, Soft joys and dear delights— I scourged you till you spread your wings And soared to nobler heights. You know me but imperfectly— My surname is Divine; God's own right hand did prison me Within this soul of thine, Lest thou, forgetting work and strife, By human longings prest, Shouldst miss the grandest things of life, Its battles and unrest.

A PRAYER OF LOVE. A prayer of love, O Father! A fair and flowery way Life stretches out before these On this their marriage day. O pour Thy choicest blessing, Withhold no gift of Thine, Fill all their world with beauty And tenderness divine! A prayer of love, O Father! This holy love and pure, That thrills the soul to rapture, O may it e'er endure! The richest of earth's treasures, The gold without alloy, The flower of faith unfading, The full, the perfect joy! No mist of tears or doubting, But in their steadfast eyes The light divine, the light of love, The light of Paradise. A prayer of love, O Father! A prayer of love to Thee, God's best be theirs for life, for death, And all Eternity!

WILD STRAWBERRIES. The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways— Ho! for the fields and the wildwood! The scents, the sights, and the dear delights— Ho! for our care-free childhood! Heavy the air with a fragrance rare, Strawberries ripe in the meadow, Luscious and red where the vines are spread Thickly in sun and shadow. The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways, Chorus of wild birds calling: "Strawberry ripe! Ho! strawberry ripe!" From dawn till the dew is falling.

SPRING. O the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep, And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep. The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves, Give never a murmur or sigh of woe—they are dead— no dead thing grieves. No carol of love from a song-bird's throat; the world lies naked and still, For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill. Not a flower—a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft— To lay its bloom on the dead river's lips, that have kissed them all so oft. But look! a ladder is spanning the space 'twixt earth and the sky beyond, A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace—the strong, the subtle, the fond! Spring, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath, Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death. Spring, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam's heart Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare—see the sap in the great trees start! Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright, A stirring and spreading of something fair—the dawn is chasing the night! Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein, The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again. Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in her hair, With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair; Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes, Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead to arise! For see, as she bends o'er the coffin deep—the frozen valley and hill— The dead river stirs,—ah, that ling'ring kiss is making its heart to thrill! And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud, Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud! The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old, And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

MADAM GRUNDY. Madam, they say, has lost her way. Tell me, has she passed thither? Let her alone and she'll come home, And bring her tales all with her.

THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS. Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean Pipe their gladness—sweeter, shriller—one would think the world was green. O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake! See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake! Mark the warm October haze! Mark the splendor of the days! And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays! See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow; If you listen you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low— "We are naked," so the fields say, "stripped of all our golden dress." "Heed it not," October answers, "for I love ye none the less. Share my beauty and my cheer While we rest together here, In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year." All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime's light and grace, All the riches of the harvest, crown her head and light her face; And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass, While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass. O the warm October haze! O the splendor of the days! O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

GOD'S WARMTH IS SHE. O glad sun, creeping through the casement wide, A million blossoms have you kissed since morn, But none so fair as this one at my side— Touch soft the bit of love, the babe new born. Towards all the world my love and pity flow, With high resolves, with trust, with sympathy. This happy heart of mine is all aglow— This heart that was so cold—God's warmth is she.

HER PRAYER. Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled, The sunshine falling on her golden hair; The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer. "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand! I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine— This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine. "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness Mocks at glad memories and longings vain! "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem! Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low, And pity me when Thou dost think of them. "My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss Morning and noon and night—her ways so wise, The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss, The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes. "I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own, Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry. She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone— My arms are empty and my bosom dry. "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring Healing for this great anguish that I bear! A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing, God might have left her to her mother's care! "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal— Press out the bitterness, fill up with love! "O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep! O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep! Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!"

DECORATING THE OLD CHURCH. Gray old gardener, what do you bring? "Laurel and ivy and bay, With palms for the crowning of a King— The morrow is Christmas Day. "Holly with thorns, and berries like blood On its shiny greenness flung. O the piercèd side, and the thorny crown, And the cross whereon He hung! "The mistletoe, meaning All-healing, Hangs close to the holly's thorn, Lest we forget that on Christmas Day The Healer of Souls was born. "Ivy's for faith; on the altar rail Let it creep where all may see; It crept till it kissed a cheek so pale That night in Gethsemane. "Bay's for remembrance, full and sweet; It speaks with its fragrant breath Of manger and cross and a lowly tomb, And a love that conquered death. "And laurel leaves for the wreath I bring, The laurel for victory, And palms for the crowning of a King— The morrow is Christmas Day."

ENVY. When Satan sends—to vex the mind of man And urge him on to meanness and to wrong— His satellites, there is not one that can Acquit itself like envy. Not so strong As lust, so quick as fear, so big as hate— A pigmy thing, the twin of sordid greed— Its work all noble things to underrate, Decry fair face, fair form, fair thought, fair deed, A sneer it has for what is highest, best, For love's soft voice, and virtue's robe of white; Truth is not true, and pity is not kind, A great task done is but a pastime light. Tormented and tormenting is the mind That grants to envy room to make its nest.

THE SONG OF THE BELLS. He frowned and shook his snowy head. "Those clanging bells! they deafen quite With their unmeaning song," he said. "I'm weary of it all to-night— The gladness, sadness. I'm so old I have no sympathy to spare, My heart has grown so hard and cold, So full of self, I do not care How many laugh, or long, or grieve In all the world this Christmas eve. "There was a time long, long ago— They take our best, the passing years— For the old life, and faith, and glow. I'd give—what's on my cheek? Not tears! I have a whim. To-night I'll spend Till eyes turn on me gratefully— An old man's whim, just to pretend That he is what he used to be; For this one night, not want nor pain Shall look to me for help in vain." "A foolish whim!" he muttered oft, The while he gave to those in need; But strangely warm and strangely soft His old face grew, for self and greed Slipped from him. Ah, it made him glow To hear the blessing, thanks, the prayer. He looked into his heart, and lo! The old-time faith and love were there. "Ring out, old bells, right gladly ring!" He said, "Full sweet the song you sing."

QUEBEC. Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lies, with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and her belovèd dead. The doves are nesting in the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim Above a field of battle stretching wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past, The strife, the valor of the long ago Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her gray old face.

MEN O' THE FOREST MARK. What we most need is men of worth, Men o' the forest mark, Of lofty height and mighty girth And green, unbroken bark. Not men whom circumstances Have stunted, wasted, sapped, Men fearful of fighting chances, Clinging to by-paths mapped. Holding honor and truth below Promotion, place and pelf; Weaklings that change as winds do blow, Lost in their love of self. Tricksters playing a game unfair (Count them, sirs, at this hour), Ready to dance to maddest air Piped by the man in power. The need, sore need, of this young land Is honest men, good sirs, Men as her oak trees tall and grand, Staunch as her stalwart firs. Steadfast, unswerving, first and last, Fearless of front and strong, Meeting the challenge of the blast With high, clear battle song. Not sapless things of the byways, Lacking in life and strength, Not shrivelled shrubs of the highways, Pigmy of breadth and length, But noblest growth of God's green earth— Men o' the forest mark, Of lofty height and giant girth And green, unbroken bark.

A SONG OF CHEER. Here's a song of cheer For the whole long year: We've only to do our best, Take up our part With a strong, true heart— The Lord will do all the rest.

THE FIRSTBORN. The harvest sun lay hot and strong On waving grain and grain in sheaf, On dusty highway stretched along, On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf. The wind which stirred the tasseled corn Came creeping through the casement wide, And softly kissed the babe new born That nestled at its mother's side. That mother spoke in tones that thrilled: "My firstborn's cradled in my arm, Upon my breast his cry is stilled, And here he lies so dear, so warm." To her had come a generous share Of worldly honors and of fame, Of hours replete with gladness rare, But no one hour seemed just the same. As that which came when, white and spent With pain of travail great, she lay, Thrilled through with rapture and content, And love and pride, that August day. The fairest picture of the past— Life's tenderest page till all is done— A glad young mother holding fast God's wondrous gift—her little son.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY. There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea, Here's to the Saint that blessed it! And here's to the billows wild and free That for centuries have caressed it! Here's to the day when the men that roam Send longing eyes o'er the water! Here's to the land that still spells home To each loyal son and daughter! Here's to old Ireland—fair, I ween, With the blue skies stretched above her! Here's to her shamrock warm and green, And here's to the hearts that love her!

LESLEY. From the little bald head to the two little feet, You are winsome, and bonnie, and tender, and sweet, But not for this do I love you. You're wilful, cajoling, not fond of restraint, A creature of moods—no tiresome saint— You're wise and you're wistful, and oh, you are quaint, But not for this do I love you. You're a rose of a maiden, the pink and the white Of your face is to me a rare thing of delight, But not for this do I love you. That "agoo" on your lips is the tenderest thing, And the eyes smiling at me, ye bonnie wee thing, Are violets washed with the dewdrops of spring, But not for this do I love you. Come, nestle down close on my bosom, you dear, The secret I'll whisper right into your ear, Because you are you do I love you, Because you are you, just you, oh, my own, Because you are Lesley, this reason alone Will do for us, darling, until you are grown, Because you are you do I love you.

THE TRYST. The harvest moon in yellow haze Is steeping all the sea and land, Is kindling paths and shining ways Around the hills, across the sand. And there are only thou and I— O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note The glory of the sea and sky, I see a softly rounded throat, A face uplifted, pure and sweet, Two blue eyes filled with trust and love; Enough, the sea sings at our feet, The harvest moon sails just above.

A GOOD WOMAN. Her eyes are the windows of a soul Where only the white thoughts spring, And they look, as the eyes of the angels look, For the good in everything. Her lips can whisper the tenderest words That weary and worn can hear, Can tell of the dawn of a better morn Till only the cowards fear. Her hands can lift up the fallen one From an overthrow complete, Can take a soul from the mire of sin And lead it to Christ's dear feet. And she can walk wherever she will— She walketh never alone. The work she does is the Master's work, And God guards well His own.

DESPAIR. We catch a glimpse of it, gaunt and gray, When the golden sunbeams are all abroad; We sober a moment, then softly say: The world still lies in the hand of God. We watch it stealthily creeping o'er The threshold leading to somebody's soul; A shadow, we cry, it cannot be more When faith is one's portion and Heaven one's goal. A ghost that comes stealing its way along, Affrighting the weak with its gruesome air, But who that is young and glad and strong Fears for a moment to meet Despair? To this heart of ours we have thought so bold All uninvited it comes one day— Lo! faith grows wan, and love grows cold, And the heaven of our dreams lies far away.

OUR DEAD IN SOUTH AFRICA. Day of battle and day of blood Found you steady and strong, I ween; Sons of the land of the Maple Leaf, Face to the foe, you died for the Queen. Brave boys, our boys, filling to-day Nameless graves upon veldt and plain, Here's to your mem'ry gallant and true, Sons of our soil, who thought it gain To fight and win, or to fight and fall! Strong of purpose, you took your stand, Proved with your life-blood red and warm Canada's faith in the Motherland! Brave boys, our boys, this have you done, Drawn us closer, and bound us fast; One are we with the Isle in the sea, One in the future, the present, the past. Brave boys, our boys, honor we owe, Honor and homage a mighty debt— You proved our love and our loyalty— The land that bore you will not forget! Canada's soldiers, Canada's sons, The land that bore you will not forget!

THE BARLEY FIELDS. The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge, Saffron pale, where a star of white Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night. O the green of the barley fields grows deep, The breath of the barley fields grows rare; There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep— The wind is holding high revel there, Singing the song it has often sung— Hark to the troubadour glad and bold: "Sweet is the earth when the summer is young And the barley fields are green and gold!"

THE IMPRISONED LARK. Did you send your song to the gates of gold In the days of long ago? A song of sweetness and gladness untold, Till fain was my lady to have and to hold— Ah! my lady did not know. 'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song, If we only understood. Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong, When the days stretch out so weary and long, Dear little bird of the wood? The sun came so boldly into your cell— 'Tis the springtime, pretty bird— And full sweet the story he had to tell Of doings in meadow and wood and dell, Till your longing grew and stirred. This cage of my lady's has silver bars, And my lady's voice is mild, But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars, Forget the hurt of the prison bars In the gladness of freedom wild! To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade Where dewdrops hide from the sun! O fields where the blossoming clover swayed! O voices familiar that music made Till the full, glad day was done! Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood, And you stilled the laughing throng. To make passionate longing understood You took the height and depth of your mood And flung them into a song! These guests of my lady's did listen, I know, When out through the silver bars You sent forth a measure, liquid and low As laughter of waters that ebb and flow Under the shimmering stars. You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best Your longing heart held in store, Till into the careless listener's breast There flashed a sudden and vague unrest, That grew into something more. Eyes saw for a few brief moments' space The heights that were never trod, And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race That was planned in the hours when youth and grace Came fresh from the hand of God. Only a homesick bird of the field Trilling a glorious note! Only a homesick bird of the wood With heaven in your full throat!

WOMAN. Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so, A mingling of the bitter and the sweet; Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low Of hope and trust and happiness complete, Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire, Or make themselves but wells of tenderness Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire— Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress. Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth, And only heaven fully knows her worth.

THE MULLEIN MEADOW. Down in the mullein meadow The lusty thistle springs, The butterflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings, The alderbush is flaunting Her blossoms white as snow— The same old mullein meadow We played in long ago. The waste land of the homestead, The arid sandy spot, Where reaper's song is never heard, Where wealth is never sought, But where the sunshine lingers, And merry breezes come To gather pungent perfumes From the mullein-stalks abloom. There's a playground on the hillside, A playhouse in the glade, With mulleins for a garden, And mulleins for a shade. And still the farmer grumbles That nothing good will grow In this old mullein meadow We played in long ago!

LIVING FRESHNESS. O freshness, living freshness of a day In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight, And not a stain of wear shows on the grass Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls, "Our day of loveliness is past and gone!" I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells, The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks; The wild-flowers found the sunlight where they stood, And some hid their white faces quite away, While others lifted up their starry eyes And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze.

LIFE'S DAY. "Life's day is too brief," he said at dawn, "I would it were ten times longer, For great tasks wait for me further on." At noonday the wish was stronger. His place was in the thick of the strife, And hopes were nearing completeness, While one was crowning the joys of life With love's own wonderful sweetness. "Life's day is too brief for all it contains, The triumphs, the fighting, the proving, The hopes and desires, the joys and the pains— Too brief for the hating and loving." To-night he sits in the shadows gray, While heavily sorrow presses. O the long, long day! O the weary day, With its failures and successes! He sits in the shadows and turns his eyes On the years that lie behind him. "I am tired of all things now," he cries, And the hot tears rise and blind him. "Rest and stillness is all that I crave, Such robbing of strength has grief done. Make room, dear love, in your lowly grave— Life's day, thank God, is a brief one!"

MORNING. The eastern sky grew all aglow, A tinted fleet sailed just below. The thick wood and the clinging mist Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed. To primrose, tulip, daffodil, The wind came piping gay and shrill: "Wake up! wake up! while day is new, And all the world is washed with dew!"

GRACE. (June 13, 1899.) So still you sleep upon your bed, So motionless and slender, It cannot be that you are dead, My maiden gay and tender! You were no creature pale and meek That death should hasten after, The dimples played within your cheek, Your lips were made for laughter. To you the great world was a place That care might never stay in, A playground built by God's good grace For glad young folks to play in. You made your footpath by life's flowers, O happy, care-free maiden! The sky was full of shine and showers, The wind was perfume laden. Your dimpled hands are folded now Upon your snowy bosom, The dark hair nestles on your brow— O tender, broken blossom! The white lids hide your eyes so clear, So mirthful, so beguiling, But as my tears fall on you, dear, Your lips seem softly smiling. And do you feel that it is home, The city far above us? And were they glad to have you come? And will you cease to love us? Methinks when you stand all in white To learn each sweet new duty, Some eye will note, with keen delight, Your radiance and beauty. And when your laughter softly rings Out where God's streets do glisten, The angels fair will fold their wings And still their song to listen.

THE WAY TO DREAMLAND With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maiden Sails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss; I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings uplifting As he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss. Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper, List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this; Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling, As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss. Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden portals, Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace, Would we not leave joys and sorrows, Glad to-days and sad to-morrows, For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?

HER MISSION. She is so winsome and so wise She sways me at her will, And oft the question will arise, What mission does she fill? O then I say with pride untold, And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me— For me, She just keeps house for me! A full content dwells on her face, She's quite in love with life, And for a title wears with grace The sweet old-fashioned "wife." Our children climb upon her knee, And nestle on her breast, And ah! her mission seems to me The grandest and the best. O then I say with pride untold, And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me— For me, She just keeps house for me!

FRIEND OR FOE? There's a man I know— A likeable man— Whom you meanly wound Whenever you can, Remark with malice His task is done ill, He's poor of judgment And weak of will. I implore you, now, As that poor man's friend, Let persecution Have speediest end. Cease taunting the man With blunders he makes, Cease harping alway On wrongs and mistakes. Come, be his good friend— Hail fellow, well met— His failures forgive, And his faults forget. Who is the man you've Discouraged and blamed? The man is yourself— Are you not ashamed? For faults of the past Make ample amends, And you and yourself Be the best of friends.

THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD. O the hills of purple heather, And the skies so warm and gray! O the shimmer of the sea-mist In the sea-wind far away! O the calling of the torrent, Sweeping down Ben Vorlich's side, And my white flocks faring foldward In the hush of eventide!

CHRISTMAS CONVERSION. I can see her in the kitchen, Apron on and sleeves rolled up, Measurin' spices in a teaspoon, Figs and raisins in a cup. Now she's throwin' apple quarters In that wooden bowl of hers, 'Long with lemon peel and orange, An' she stirs, an' stirs, an' stirs. Then she takes her knife an' chops it, Chops so fast her hand jest flies. Now I know what ma is up to— Makin' mincemeat for the pies. I smell Christmas in our kitchen, An' my heart gets big an' glad, An' I, somehow, fall to wishin', That I wasn't quite so bad. An' I tell myself I'll never Cheat at marbles any more, Nor make faces at my teacher, Nor hang round the corner store 'Stead of goin' on my errands; Never touch the cookie pail, Nor play hooky an' go skatin', Nor tie cans on Rover's tail; Never let ma think it's spellings When it's only Robin Hood. With the gladness comes the wishin' To be, oh, just awful good! 'Bout this time of year it takes me— Pa, he doesn't understand, Always says: "You sly young codger, You know Christmas is at hand." But it isn't that, it's something— Can't explain it very well— Takes me when ma fills the kitchen With this juicy Christmas smell. When she chops the spice an' raisins, With the peels an' Northern Spies, Sleeves rolled up above her elbows, Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

A BIT O' SHAMROCK. We met her on the hillside green Below old Castle Blarney; Her name, she whispered, was Eileen, Her home it was Killarney. I see her yet, her Irish eyes Blue gray as seas in summer, And hear her welcome, on this wise, Vouchsafed to each new-comer: "I'll guide ye up the stairway steep, And naught will ye be missing O' battlement or donjon keep, Or blarney stone for kissing. "The tower that was McCarthy's pride, The scene o' battles thrilling, And where the Desmond kept his bride— Me fee is but a shilling. "Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm"— Her low tones grow caressing— "A bit o' shamrock green and warm, To bring ye luck and blessing." The "keepsake charm"—I have it yet— A thing of guile and blarney; Each green leaf dares me to forget Fair Eileen o' Killarney.

SLANDER. He does the devil's basest work, no less, Who deals in calumnies—who throws the mire On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press His foul lips to. The pity of it! Liar, Yet half believed by such as deem the good Or evil but the outcome of a mood. That one who, with the breath lent him by Heaven, Speaks words that on some white soul do reflect, Is lost to decency, and should be driven Outside the pale of honest men's respect. O slanderer, hell's imps must say of you: "He does the work we are ashamed to do!"

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. "Poet by the grace of God." You sing of winter gray and chill, Of silent stream and frozen lake, Of naked woods, and winds that wake To shriek and sob o'er vale and hill. And straight we breathe the bracing air, And see stretched out before our eyes A white world spanned by brooding skies, And snowflakes drifting everywhere. You sing of tender things and sweet, Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush, The lilt of bird, the sunset flush, The scarlet poppies in the wheat. Until we feel the gleam and glow Of summer pulsing through our veins, And hear the patter of the rains, And watch the green things sprout and grow. You sing of joy, and we do mark How glad a thing is life, and dear; Of sorrow, and we seem to hear The sound of sobbing in the dark. The subtle power to sway and move, The stamp of genius strong and true, This, friend, was heaven's gift to you, This made you great and won you love. Your song goes ringing clear and sweet— Though on earth's bosom, bare and brown, All willingly you laid you down, The music is not incomplete. Sleep on, it is not by the years We measure life when all is done; Your rest is earned, your laurels won; Sleep, softly sleep, we say with tears.

A HINT. Among the vivid green I see A yellow leaf, And yonder in the basswood tree An empty nest swings lonesomely— The wheat's in sheaf.

CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT. They lift their faces to the light, And aye they are a gallant band; The queen of all is snowy white— A stately thing, and tall and grand. See, close beside, in yellow drest, Is the prince consort of the hour; A bit of God's own sunshine prest Into a glorious golden flower! And mark the courtiers' noble grace— Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine— Their satin doublets slashed with lace, Their velvet cloaks as red as wine. Each maid-in-waiting is most fair— Note well the graces she unfurls— The winds have tossed her fluffy hair, And left it in a thousand curls. And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one, Arrayed in palest lavender, Ah! few there are, when all is done, In beauty can compare with her. The pink—I've seen at eventide A something very like to this, A cloud adrift upon the sky, All rosy from the sun's last kiss. Without the court, the chill and gloom Of autumn twilight o'er the land; Within, the grandeur and the bloom Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.

HER LITTLE WAY. 'Tis woman rules the whole world still, Though faults the critics say she has; She smiles her smile and works her will— 'Tis just a little way she has.

THE CRITICISM. The great man came to the country place, To preach to farmers sturdy; He said: "I'm in my happiest vein, I'll be eloquent and wordy." "Not often a great man like myself Comes here to do the teaching— A big event in these quiet lives— They'll not forget my preaching." The great man found him a text at length In Ezekiel's ponderous pages; From point to point of his sermon long He travelled at easy stages. He soared up high in the realms of thought, Was rich in allegory. "I have," said he, as he sat him down, "Covered myself with glory. "These simple rustics are overcome With my rhetoric and power, They're used to a sprinkling of thought And I've given them a shower." The great man got a terrible shock As, the long service over, He walked with a farmer grave and staid Home through the fields of clover. "Your people—ah—were they much impressed With my sermon?" he queried. "Preaching with earnestness, power and force Has left me sadly wearied." "A worse would a done us country folks"— The farmer's tone a terse one— "That is," reflectively, "if you Happened to have a worse one."

JESSIE. You miss the touch of her dear hand, Her laughter gay and sweet, The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile, The patter of her feet. The loving glances she bestowed, The tender tales she told— The world, since she has gone away, Seems empty, drear and cold. Dear, oft you prayed that God would give Your darling joy and grace, That pain or loss might never dim The brightness of her face. That her young heart might keep its trust, Its purity so white, Its wealth of sweet unselfishness, Her eyes their radiant light, Her fair, soft face its innocence Of every guile and wrong, And nothing touch to mar the joy And gladness of her song. God heard the prayer; His answer came— Now, cease thy murmuring, cease— "Come, little one, come home," He said, "Unto the Land of Peace!" You sheltered her upon your breast, The child so quaint and wise, To-day, where sorrow is unknown, She walks in paradise. Her eyes have learned the mystery, Her feet the vale have crost, But, friend of mine, you'll find again The treasure you have lost. Your arms will surely clasp once more The little fair-haired girl Who waits for you within the gates Of jasper and of pearl.

POYNINGS. Do you remember that June day among The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills? Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds That skipped and chased each other merrily In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky; Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads As though they fain would neighbor with that sky. Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white; The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play, And over all the stillness of the hills, The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills. The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded. "Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks, "Not of our kind, but strangers come from out The busy, bustling world to taste the sweets Of silence and of peace. We wish you well." In eager quest of what the hills might hide, Some valley of content, some spring of youth, Some deep, enchanted dell filled to the brim With subtle mysteries, allurement rare, We followed down a path, a little crooked, Wand'ring path that lost itself and found itself So oft we knew it for the playmate of the stream That went with us and sang a clamorous song— A never-ending song of flock and fold Of sea-mist and of sun—until at length We came into a valley warm and wide, A cradle 'mong the hills. In it there lay No infant hamlet, but one gray and old That dozed and dreamed the soft June hours away. Gardens there were with fragrant wall-flowers filled, And daffodils, and rhododendrons pale, And sweet, old-fashioned pinks, phlox, rosemary; An avenue of elms, with cottages, And barefoot children sporting on the green. "'Tis Poynings," said the rustic, "see, the church Lies yonder, and the graveyard just beyond; This path will lead you straight to it." Do you remember—rather, will you e'er forget?— That gray church built, how many centuries Ago? The worn stone steps, the oaken door, The crumbling walls, the altar carved, The stories told by stained-glass windows set Deep in the walls; the ivy, thick and green, Which crept and hid the grayness quite from sight. Within, the smell of roses from the sheaf Of scarlet bloom before the altar laid, Close mingled with the mould and must of age; On wall and floor memorials to the dead, Who, unafraid, had slumbered there so long. And then the graveyard out among the trees— No graveyard, but a garden, flower filled— Moss roses white as moth wings in the night, And lilies sorrowful but very sweet, Low-growing violets in grasses hid, And rue which spoke of some heart's bitterness. Old Time had decked the stones with lichens rare, Rubbed out with careless hand the lettering: In memory of someone's life and love Each stood, but whose we might not know. And while we lingered in the perfumed gloom, And watched the golden sunshine smite the hills, An English blackbird straight began a song So sweet, so high, so shrill, so wondrous clear, That! listening, our eyes grew dim the while Our hearts did thrill. Whoe'er has heard the song An English blackbird carols forth in June Knows well the power it has, the wondrous charm! Strangers were we within the gates, and so He gave us welcome, clearer, warmer still, A welcome to the beauty and the bloom, The silence of the churchyard old and gray, A welcome to the grasses and the brook, The shade of feathery elm trees, and the glow Of sunlight quivering, golden on the sward, A welcome to the valley dim, and to The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills.

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA. Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat, Sing to the breezes passing by, Sing your jubilant song and sweet, Sing to the earth, the air, the sky! Earth that held thee and skies that kissed Morning and noon and night for long, Sun and rain and dew and mist, All that has made you glad and strong. The harvest fields of the far, far west Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold! Every ripple upon its breast Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold! Far as the eye can reach it goes, Farther yet, 'till there seems no end, Under a sky where blue and rose With the gold and turquoise softly blend. Here, where sweep the prairies lone, Broad and beautiful in God's eyes, Here in this young land, all our own, The garner-house of the old world lies.

DAWN. I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays! We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days, The earth would hold me, every day familiar things Would weigh me fast, The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings Goes flitting past. Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send its breath To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace, And combat death. It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes The sorrow grow. Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradise And leave thee so! A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere, When thou didst grieve; Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fear I'd crave reprieve. But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight, When shadows creep, Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night," And fall asleep.

THE CRICKET. O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth, With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth! There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest: "Love's the only wealth that's lasting—who cares aught for all the rest? Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard, Have you not the wife and bairns?" chirps the sweet, insistent bard— Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow— "Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below." O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth, With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!

EARTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY. You cannot take from out my heart the growing, The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill. "O Earth," you cry, "you should be old, not glowing With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!" Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom! Old, and my children drawing life from me! Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom! Old, steeped in richness and fertility! Old, while the growing things call to each other, In language I alone can understand: "How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!" Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace! Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them Healing and soothing and a hiding place. And then, my human children, could you listen To secrets whispered in the stillness deep Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten— 'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep. Some tell me moving tales of love and passion, Of gladness all too great to be pent in— The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion— Another cries out brokenly of sin. While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it, Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast, Sobbing: "Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it, Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!" The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow I hear to-day—I heard it yesterday— Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow That ye may bring to me, O Century. I answer mourner, penitent, and lover, With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap: "Peace, peace," I say, "when life's brief day is over Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap." The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing, The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears, And yet you think I should be old, uncaring, The barren, worn-out plaything of the years! Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness With all their marches, as you well can see, Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness. March on—what are your hundred years to me. While life and growth within me glow and flourish, While in the sunshine and the falling rain I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish The springtime blossom and the harvest grain? March on, O Century, I am safe holden In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth— The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!

THAIL BURN. The river is a ribbon wide, The falls a snowy feather, And stretching far on ilka side Are hills abloom wi' heather. The wind comes loitering frae the west By weight o' sweets retarded; The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest, A Golden Fleece unguarded. We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair, That hand in hand do tarry; The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr, The lass is Highland Mary. He tells her they will never pairt— 'Tis life and luve taegither— The world has got the song by hairt He sang among the heather. 'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago, Yet all remember dearly The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow O' her he luved sae dearly. And lads still woo their lassies dear, I' cot and hall and dairy, By words he whispered i' the ear O' his ain Highland Mary.

THE LAKE SHORE ROAD. 'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun, And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow To let the heavy-laden bees pass out. A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom Of shrub and fern and brake, Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find The coolness of the lake. A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge, And flings her tinted blossoms in the air; The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol Of white the elderberry shades her head And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill. From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade, A bird flies with a call of love and joy That wins an answer straight From that brown thing of gladness on a bough, Too slight to hold him and his weight of song, The proud and watchful mate. The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood, With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox, And lilies red and white; The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all A garden of delight.

MAGDALENE. A woman in her youth, but lost to all The joys of innocence. Love she had known, Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame. Passion was hers, hate and impurity, The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush Of fallen womanhood, the envy of The spotless, the desire that they might sink Low in the mire as she. Oh, what a soul She carried on that day! The women drew Their robes back from her touch, men leered, And children seemed afraid to meet The devilish beauty of her form and face. Shunned and alone, Till One came to her side, And spake her name, and took her hand in His. And what He said Is past the telling. There are things the heart Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world; And when He went His way, Upon her brow, where shame had lain, Was set the one sweet word: Forgiveness.

MY LADY NIGHTINGALE. I heard you singing in the grove, My Lady Nightingale; The thirsty leaves were drinking dew, And all the sky was pale. A silence—clear as bells of peace Your song thrilled on the air, Each liquid note a thing of joy, And sweet beyond compare. Not all of joy—a haunting strain Of sorrow and of tears, A note of grief which seemed to voice The sadness of the years. 'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet, My Lady Nightingale, Yet subtly sad, the song you sang When all the sky was pale.

THE ORCHARD. There's no garden like an orchard, Nature shows no fairer thing Than the apple trees in blossom In these late days o' the spring. Here the robin redbreast's nesting, Here, from golden dawn till night, Honey bees are gaily swimming In a sea of pink and white. Just a sea of fragrant blossoms, Steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew, Just a fragrant breath which tells you Earth is fair again and new. Just a breath of subtle sweetness, Breath which holds the spice o' youth, Holds the promise o' the summer— Holds the best o' things, forsooth. There's no garden like an orchard, Nature shows no fairer thing Than the apple trees in blossom In these late days o' the spring.

OCTOBER. Who is it says May is the crown of the year? Who is it says June is the gladdest? Who is it says Autumn is withered and sere, The gloomiest season and saddest? You shut to your doors as I come with my train, And heed not the challenge I'm flinging, The ruddy leaf washed by the fresh falling rain, The scarlet vine creeping and clinging! Come out where I'm holding my court like a queen, With canopy rare stretching over; Come out where I revel in amber and green, And soon I may call you my lover! Come out to the hillside, come out to the vale, Come out ere your mood turns to blaming, Come out where my gold is, my red gold and pale, Come out where my banners are flaming! Come out where the bare furrows stretch in the glow, Come out where the stubble fields glisten, Where the wind it blows high, and the wind it blows low, And the lean grasses dance as they listen!

ST. ANDREW'S DAY—A TOAST. Wha cares if skies be dull and gray? Wha heeds November weather? Let ilka Scot be glad to-day The whole wide warl' thegither. We're a' a prood and stubborn lot, And clannish—sae fowk name us— Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought Tae judge us, or tae blame us, For joys that are we'll pledge to-day A land baith fair and glowing— Here's tae the hames o' Canada, Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing! For joys that were, for auld lang syne, For tender chords that bind us, A toast—your hand, auld friend, in mine— "The land we left behind us!" Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen! We'll toast her a' thegither, Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen! Here's tae her hills and heather! Here's tae the auld hame far away! While tender mists do blind us, We'll pledge on this, St. Andrew's day, "The land we left behind us!"

WHEN TREES ARE GREEN. Would you be glad of heart and good? Would you forget life's toil and care? Come, lose yourself in this old wood When May's soft touch is everywhere. The hawthorn trees are white as snow, The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays, The willows kiss the stream below And listen to its flatteries: "O willows supple, yellow, green, Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone, I say with truth I have not seen A rarer beauty than your own!" The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife; Oak, maple, through the heart of each There runs a glorious tide of life. Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand, On trunk and limb a hint of red, The gleam of poplars tall that stand With God's own sunshine on their head. The mandrake's silken parasol Is fluttering in the breezes bold, And yonder where the waters brawl The buttercups show green and gold. The slender grape-vine sways and weaves, From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloom There comes the smell of earth and leaves, The breath of wild-flowers all abloom. Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast, Spring's joy is in the robin's song: "My mate is in yon sheltered nest; Ho! love is sweet and summer long!" While full and jubilant and clear, All the long day, from dawn till dark, The trill of bobolink we hear, Of hermit thrush and meadowlark. Sit here among the grass and fern Unmindful of the cares of life, The lessons we have had to learn, The hurts we've gotten in the strife. There's youth in every breath we take, Forgetfulness of loss and tears, Within the heart there seems to wake The gladness of the long past years. Peace keeps us company to-day In this old fragrant, shadowy wood; We lift our eyes to heaven and say: The world is fair and God is good.

O RADIANCE OF LIFE'S MORNING. O Radiance of life's morning! O gold without alloy! O love that lives through all the years! O full, O perfect joy! The hills of earth touch heaven, the heaven of blue and gold, And angel voices swell the song of love and peace untold! O radiance of life's morning! The dew within the rose, The fragrance fresh from Eden That freights each breeze that blows! Dear Christ, the wine of Cana pour out in rich supply, These hearts keep young with gladness while all the years go by! O radiance of life's morning! O gold without alloy! O love that lives through all the years, O full, O perfect joy!

THE IDLER. If but one spark of honest zeal Flashes to life within his breast— A feeble, flick'ring spark at best; If for a moment he doth feel A dim desire to throw aside The bonds that idleness has wrought, To do, to be the man he ought, The tyrant thing he calls his pride— The curse of all things good on earth— Takes on the cruel midwife's role, And each high impulse of the soul Is strangled in the hour of birth. "To dig I am ashamed," quoth he; "Mine is the pride of name and race That scorns to fill such humble space— Life's lowly tasks are not for me." Oh, he can flatter with his tongue, Can toady to the rich and great, Can fawn on those he feels to hate, Until from out his nature's wrung Each shred of honesty and zeal, Each impulse independent, strong, Till truth and honor's but a song, And naught is beautiful or real.

THE TRUST. We steal the brawn, we steal the brain; The man beneath us in the fight Soon learns how helpless and how vain To plead for justice or for right. We steal the youth, we steal the health, Hope, courage, aspiration high; We steal men's all to make for wealth— We will repent us by and by. Meantime, a gift will heaven appease— Great God, forgive our charities! We steal the children's laughter shrill, We steal their joys e'er they can taste, "Why skip like young lambs on a hill? Go, get ye to your task in haste." No matter that they droop and tire, That heaven cries out against the sin, The gold, red gold, that we desire Their dimpled hands must help to win. A cheque for missions, if you please— Great God, forgive our charities! We steal the light from lover's eyes, We hush the tale he has to tell Of pure desire, of tender ties— No man can serve two masters well. So loot his treasury of pride, His holy hopes and visions steal, His hearth-fire scatter far and wide, And grind the sparks beneath your heel. A cheque will cover sins like these— Great God, forgive our charities!

WHEN PAGANINI PLAYS. "Dawn!" laughs the bow, and we straight see the sky, Crimson, and golden, and gray, See the rosy cloudlets go drifting by, And the sheen on the lark as, soaring high, He carols to greet the day. Fast moves the bow o'er the wonderful strings— We feel the joy in the air— 'Tis alive with the glory of growing things, With wild honeysuckle that creeps and clings, Rose of the briar bush—queen of the springs— Anemones frail and fair! We listen, and whisper with laughter low, "It voices rare gladness, that ancient bow!" Then, sad as the plaint of a child at night— A child aweary with play— The falling of shadows, a lost delight, The moaning of watchers counting the flight Of hours 'twixt the dark and day. It echoes the cry of a broken heart, It grieves o'er a "might have been," It holds all the passionate tears that start When our heaven and our earth drift far apart, And the way lies dark between. It stills all our laughter, and whispers low— 'Tis heart-strings it plays on, that ancient bow!

TO-DAY YOU UNDERSTAND. You lifted eyes pain-filled to me, Sad, questioning eyes that did demand Why I should thrust back, childishly, The friendship warm you offered me— Ah, sweet, to-day you understand! 'Twas that my heart beat rapturously At word of thine, at touch of hand, At tender glance vouchsafed to me The while I knew it must not be— Ah, sweet, to-day you understand! There's neither pain nor mystery In that far-off and fragrant land To which you journeyed fearlessly; By gates of pearl and jasper sea— Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!

LOVE'S SACRIFICE. "And behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster box of ointment and stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head." The eyes He turned on her who kneeling wept Were filled with tenderness and pity rare; But looking on the Pharisee, there crept A sorrow and a hint of sternness there. "Simon, I have somewhat to say to thee," The Master's voice rang clearly out, and stirred, With its new note of full authority, The list'ning throng, who pressed to catch each word. "Master, say on," self-righteous Simon said, And muttered in his beard, "A sinner, she!" Marvelling the while that on the drooping head The hand of Jesus rested tenderly. "Seest thou this woman, Simon?" Scornful eyes Did Simon bend upon the woman's face, The while the breath of love's sweet sacrifice Rose from the broken box and filled the place. Self-righteousness, the slimy thing that grows Upon a fellow-creature's frailty, That waxes fat on shame of ruined lives, Swelled in the bosom of the Pharisee. "Into thine house I came at thy request, Weary with travel, and thou gavest not To me the service due the humblest guest, No towel, no water clear and cold was brought "To wash my feet; but she, whom you despise, Out of the great affection she doth bear Hath made a basin of her woman's eyes, A towel of her woman's wealth of hair. "Thou gavest me no kiss"—O Simon, shame, Thus coldly and unlovingly to greet The Prince of Peace!—"but ever since I came This woman hath not ceased to kiss my feet. "He loveth most who hath been most forgiven." O Simon, hearken, learn the great truth well, No soul on faith's glad wings mounts nearer heaven Than that which hath been prisoned deep in hell. Methinks I hear her say: "Thou who forgivest My many sins, this off'ring, sweet of breath, I pour on Thee, dear Lord, while yet thou liv'st, For love is ever swift to outrun death." Upon her are the eyes of Jesus turned, With gaze which seems to strengthen and to bless. Who knows how long the soul of Him hath yearned For some such token of rare tenderness? The flush of shame flaunts red on Simon's cheeks, About the table idle babblings cease, A deep, full silence, then the Master speaks: "Thy faith hath saved thee, go in peace—in peace."

WHEN THE DUSK COMES DOWN. Do you know what I will love best of all To do when I'm old? At the close of day When the dusk comes down and the shadows play, And the wind sings loud in the poplars tall, I will love to get into my corner here— The curtains drawn, and never a one To break the stillness—to sit here alone And dream of these good old times, my dear. In fancy you'll come and sit by my side— I can see your face with my eyes close shut, With the pride and the softness clearly cut, The obstinate chin and the forehead wide, The oval cheek and the smile so warm, The dark eyes full of their fun and power, With the tender light for the tender hour, And the flash of fire that was half their charm. I'll whisper: 'Twas sweet when youth was our own— The laughter, the nonsense, the freedom from care, The castles we built high up in the air, The secrets told to each other alone! Not all of laughter; the world went wrong, And the shadows pressed till my heart was sore. I'll never be glad, I said, any more, Never be happy, or gay, or strong. O the sweetest thing in the hour of pain Is to have one near us who understands, To touch us gently and hold our hands, Till our strength and courage come back again. At love's swift pace you hurried to me— Your tender words they will ring in my ears When I sit and dream after long, long years— The shine in your eyes through the mists I'll see. Our lives will be lying so far apart, And time, no doubt, will have given us much Of weary wisdom; put many a touch Of his withering hand on face and heart. But I know what I will love best of all To do at the end of the busy day, When the dusk comes down and the shadows play, And the wind sings low in the poplars tall. I will love to get into my corner here, With the curtains drawn, and never a one To break the stillness—to sit here alone And dream of these happy days, my dear, And take my treasures from memory's hold— The tears, the laughter, the songs that were sung— O the friends we love when the heart is young Are the friends we love when the heart grows old!

THE GHOSTS OF NIGHT. When we were children, long ago, And crept to bed at close of day, With backward glance and footstep slow, Though all aweary with our play, Do you remember how the room— The little room with window deep— Would fill with shadows and with gloom, And fright us so we could not sleep? For O! the things we see at night— The dragons grim, the goblins tall, And, worst of all, the ghosts in white That range themselves along the wall! We could but cover up our head, And listen to our heart's wild beat— Such dreadful things about our bed, And no protection save a sheet! Then slept, and woke quite unafraid. The sun was shining, and we found Our shadows and our ghosts all laid, Our world a glorious playing-ground. For O! the things we see at night— The dragons grim, the goblins tall, And, worst of all, the ghosts in white That range themselves along the wall! We are but children still, the years Have never taught us to be bold, For mark our trembling and our fears When sometimes, as in days of old, We in the darkness lie awake, And see come stealing to our side A ghostly throng—the grave Mistake, The Failure big, the broken Pride. For O! the things we see at night— The dragons grim, the goblins tall, And, worst of all, the ghosts in white That range themselves along the wall! How close they creep! How big they loom! The Task which waits, the Cares which creep; A child, affrighted in the gloom, We fain would hide our head and weep. When, lo! the coward fear is gone— The golden sunshine fills the air, And God has sent us with the dawn The strength and will to do and dare. For O! the things we see at night— The dragons grim, the goblins tall, And, worst of all, the ghosts in white That range themselves along the wall!

THE LONG AGO. O life has its seasons joyous and drear, Its summer sun and its winter snow, But the fairest of all, I tell you, dear, Was the sweet old spring of the long ago— The ever and ever so long ago— When we walked together among the flowers, When the world with beauty was all aglow. O the rain and dew! O the shine and showers Of the sweet old spring of the long ago! The ever and ever so long ago. A hunger for all of the past delight Is stirred by the winds that softly blow. Can you spare me a thought from heaven to-night For the sweet old spring of the long ago?— The ever and ever so long ago.

FORGIVE AND FORGET. I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart, I'll tell you the sweetest thing— 'Tis saying to one that we love: "Forgive The careless words and the sting; Forgive and forget, and be friends once more, For the world is an empty place Without the light of your warm, true eyes, And the smile of your tender face." O the kissing and making up again, And the tender whispering! I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart, I'll tell you the sweetest thing. I'll tell you the saddest thing, dear heart, I'll tell you the saddest thing: 'Tis coming to one that we love full well, Some tender message to bring. And loitering, loitering, by the way— Held back by a foolish pride— Till it's all too late to say "Forgive!" When at length we reach her side. For the ears are heavy and cannot hear, And the chill lips cannot move To whisper "Peace," though our hearts may break With longing, and pain, and love, O this coming too late with our tenderness! O the passionate tears that spring! I'll tell you the saddest thing, dear heart, I'll tell you the saddest thing! Then let us make haste to be friends again, Make haste to fold to our breast The one we have hurt by word and deed, Though we loved that one the best. "Forgive and forget! Forgive and forget!" O warm in the tear-wet eyes Is the glow and the gleam of a golden light From the shores of Paradise. O the kissing and making up again, And the tender whispering! I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart, I'll tell you the sweetest thing.

THE ARGUMENT. "As friend," she said, "I will be kind, My sympathy will rarely fail, My eyes to many faults be blind— As wife, I'll lecture, scold, and rail, "Be full of moods, a shrew one day, A thing of tenderness the next, Will kiss and wound—a woman's way That long the soul of man has vext. "You've been a true, unselfish man, Have thought upon my good alway, Been strong to shield, and wise to plan, But ah! there is a change to-day. "There's mastery in your 'Be my wife!' For self stands up and eagerly Claims all my love, and all my life, The body and the soul of me. "Come, call me friend, and own me such, Nor count it such a wondrous thing To hold me close, thrill at my touch— A lord and master!—there's the sting. "'Tis all or naught with you, you plead, And he is blest who boldly wins; These words," she said, "are proof, indeed, That love and selfishness are twins. "Yet, had you let my wisdom sway, Would it have pleased me, who can tell? I might have said regretfully: 'Methinks I reasoned far too well!'"

THE SECRET. The throng about her did not know, Her nearest friend could not surmise Whence came the brightness and the glow, The wondrous radiance of her eyes. One said, half enviously: "Your face Is beautiful with gladness rare, With that warm, generous heart of yours Some precious secret you must share." Ah, true beneath the filmy lace That rose and fell upon her breast, Her first love-taken held its place— From him, from him whom she loved best!

VASHTI. "O last days of the year!" she whispered low, "You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stay A while, a little while. Do you not know What tender things you bear with you away? "I'm thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here, Of all the riches that were mine the day There crept down on the world the soft New Year, A rosy thing with promise filled, and gay. "But twelve short months ago! a little space In which to lose so much—a whole life's wealth Of love and faith, youth and youth's tender grace— Things that are wont to go from us by stealth. "Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong, The clasp of clinging hands, the ling'ring kiss, The joy of living, and the glorious song That drew its sweetness from a full heart's bliss. "O wealth of tenderness! O gladness great! That crowned me, covered me a year ago! A bankrupt, I—gone faith, gone warm caress Gone love, gone youth, gone all!" She whispered low. "Oh, last days of the year, you take away The riches that I held so close and dear. Go not so swiftly, stay a little, stay With one poor bankrupt, Last days of the year."

THE TREASURE BOX. I asked Aunt Persis yester-eve, as twilight fell, If she had things of value hidden safe away— Treasures that were her very own? And did she love To bring them forth, and feast her eyes upon their worth, And finger them with all a miser's greed of touch? She smiled that slow, warm smile of hers, and drew me down Beside her in the inglenook. The rain beat hard Against the panes, without the world was doubly gray With twilight and with cloud. The room was full of shade Till Persis stirred the slumbering grate fire wide awake, And made it send its flickering shafts of light into Each corner dim—gay shafts that chased the shadows forth And took their place, then stole away and let The shadow back, and then gave chase again, The maddest and the stillest game! To music of The raindrops on the pane, and wind that softly shrilled About the eaves, the treasure box was opened wide And its contents exposed to the rude gaze of one Too young, too worldly-wise to know their value great. I thought to see pearls, corals, quaint, old-fashioned gems, Or lace like gossamer creamed by the hand of time— Real treasures worthy of the hoarding. Lo! I saw A leather-covered book, a worn and musty thing With ragged leaves and many marks. "What is it?" I asked; "To me it looks the school-book that some stupid child Has learned its lesson from." "And so it is," she smiled. "My father's testament, And at his knee I conned the Golden Rule, and all The wondrous truths that teach us how to live. 'Tis dear To me, you may suppose." A knot of ribbon that Had once been blue, a braid of dark brown hair, a spray Of lily o' the valley, withered, sere, yet holding still a breath Of sweetness indescribable; some letters tied With silk, a broken fan, some verses scribbled on A yellow page, a baby's shoe, more letters, and, What think you, friend? A string of amber beads, without A trace of value—beads of glass strung on a bit Of twine. Aunt Persis took them in her hand and let The firelight play on them. "My grandmother's first gift," She said, and slipped them round her neck. "I love them best Of all my ornaments—each amber bead holds fast A joy caught in the childhood days of pleasantness, And when I sit here with the sparkling things held close The joys they gathered long ago slip from them to My heart, and ere I know, I am a child once more. "Treasures! Nay, dear one, in your clear young eyes I see The disappointment grow—no treasures these, you say; These faded things, and poor, these musty, ragged things— But some day in the gloaming of your life you'll ope Your treasure box, and find a hoard of just such things As these—a few rare trifles wrapped in memories.

THE MESSAGE. My Marjorie doth hold in her white hands A spray of lilies plucked below the brook Where the old ruin of a chapel stands— A ruin tenanted by many a nook, And all the grayness of it hid from sight By gracious draping of the ivy green. Sweet lilies, 'tis your glorious fate to-night To lie upon her breast, to send between Her silken bodice and the heart beneath The fragrance given you by sun and shower. Speak subtly with your warm, sweet-scented breath Till, 'mid the dance and music of the hour, She turn you love-filled eyes and glowing face, With: "Ah, ye grew in that old trysting place!"

ESTRANGED. "It is good-bye," she said; "the world is wide, There's space for you and me to walk apart. Though we have walked together side by side, My thoughts all yours, my resting-place your heart, We now will go our different ways. Forget The happy past. I would not have you keep One thought of me. Ah, yes, my eyes are wet; My love is great, my grief must needs be deep. "Yet I have strength to look at you, and say: Forget it all, forget our souls were stirred, Forget the sweetness of each dear, dead day, The warm, impassioned kiss, the tender word, The clinging handclasp, and the love-filled eyes— Forget all these; but, when we walk apart Remember this, though wilful and unwise, No word of mine did ever hurt your heart."

THE PARTING. One summer's morning I heard a lark Singing to heaven, a sweet-throated bird; One winter's night I was glad in the dark Because of the wondrous song I had heard. The joy of life, I have heard you say, Is my love, my laughter, my smiles and tears; When I have gone on the long, strange way, Let these stay with you through all the years— These be the lark's song. What is love worth That cannot crowd, in the time that's given To two like us on this gray old earth, Such bliss as will last till we reach heaven? Dear one, think oft of the full, glad years, And, thinking of them, forget to weep. Whisper: "Remembrance holds no tears!" And kiss my mouth when I fall on sleep.

MARGARET. Her eyes—upon a summer's day God's skies are not more blue than they. Her hair—you've seen a sunbeam bold Made up of just such threads of gold. Her cheek—the leaf which nearest grows The dewy heart of June's red rose. Her mouth—full lipped, and subtly sweet As briar drowned in summer heat. Her heart—December's chill and snow— Heaven pity me, who love her so!

ST. VALENTINE. The girl's a slender thing and fair, With dimpled cheek and eyes ashine; The youth is tall, with bashful air. Heigho! a fond and foolish pair— The day is yours, St. Valentine. He says: "My heart will constant prove, Since every beat of it is thine; The sweetest joy of life is love." The birds are mating in the grove— The day is yours, St. Valentine. What matter that the wind blows chill Through leafless tree and naked vine, That snowdrifts linger on the hill, When warm love makes the pulses thrill? The day is yours, St. Valentine.

TWO JUNE NIGHTS. A red rose in my lady's hair, A white rose in her fingers, A wild bird singing low, somewhere, A song that pulses, lingers. The sound of dancing and of mirth, The fiddle's merry chiming, A smell of earth, of fresh, warm earth, And honeysuckle climbing; My lady near, yet far away— Ah, lonely June of yesterday! A big white night of velvet sky, And Milky Way a-gleaming, The fragrant blue smoke drifting by From camp-fire brightly beaming; The stillness of the Northland far— God's solitudes of splendor— My road a trail, my chart a star. Wind, 'mong the balsams slender, Sing low: O glad June of to-day, My lady's near, though far away!

REMEMBRANCE. "Once they were lovers," says the world, "with young hearts all aglow; They have forgotten," says the world, "forgotten long ago." Between ourselves—just whisper it—the old world does not know. They walk their lone, divided ways, but ever with them goes Remembrance, the subtle breath of love's sweet thorny rose.

THE EMIGRANT LADDIE. Though long, long leagues of land and sea Stretch out between Braemar and me, I'll win home late or soon, Will take the old familiar way Past Isla Glen, up bold Glenshee, By sun-kissed hill and valley gray— These feet of mine will find their way At midnight or at noon. The hearth-fire, and the cot of stone Set 'mong the fir trees tall and lone, I'll see before my eyes; Hear rough winds kiss the heath-clad hill, The murmur gay of loch and rill, The mavis singing sweet and shrill, Hear, warm and soft as notes that thrill The souls in paradise. A voice all tremulous and glad Cries out: "A welcome home, my lad!"

LOVE'S SERVICE. Your presence is a psalm of praise, And as its measure grandly rings God's finger finds my heart and plays A te deum upon its strings. I never see you but I feel That I in gratitude must kneel. Your head down-bent, the brow of snow Crowned with the shining braids of hair, To me, because I love you so, Is in itself a tender prayer, All faith, all meekness, and all trust— "Amen!" I cry, because I must. Your clear eyes hold the text apart, And shame my love of place and pelf With, "Love the Lord with all thine heart, And love thy neighbor as thyself!" Dear eyes and true,—I sorely need More knowledge of your gracious creed. About your lips the summer lies— Who runs may read each subtle lure To draw me nearer to the skies, And make me strong, and keep me pure. I loathe my worldliness and guile Each time your red lips on me smile. The benediction of your face— Your lifted face—doth make a road For white-robed peace and golden grace To reach my heart and take its load. Dear woman saint, I bow the knee, And give God thanks for love and thee!

APRIL. God's garden is this dim old wood, And hidden in its bosom The bursting bud, the feathery leaf And soft, sweet smelling blossom. Ho! May is fair, and glorious June, In rose leaves doth enfold her; Their bloom is richer than my own, But mine is sweeter, bolder. God's garden is this dim old wood, And I, the pretty vagrant, I am the gardener He sends To make it fair and fragrant.

IN MEMORIAM. (A Tribute to Mrs. George A. Cox.) The Golden Rule—the blessed creed That shelters frail humanity, The tender thought for those in need, The charity of word and deed, Without which all is vanity— This, friend, you made your very own, And yours the satisfying part To pluck the rose of love full blown, To reap the gladness you had sown With open hand and kindly heart. Simplicity, the jewel rare, Whose gleam is ever true and warm— That thing of worth beyond compare Which none but truly great may wear— Adorned your life with power and charm. Yours the sincerity that grips Fast hold of natures strong and wise; It thrilled you to your finger-tips, It set its seal on brow and lips, And shone within your dark, true eyes. The throng knew not how rich the store Of sympathy and trust you had; Knew not you were, till life was o'er, God's almoner among His poor, God's comforter to sick and sad. Too soon you went—we miss the cheer, The kindliness vouchsafed to all; The world seems strangely lone and drear When one whom many hearts hold dear Fares heavenward ere the shadows fall. Too soon you went, and yet, maybe, Your work well done, your task complete, The soul of you turned longingly Toward gates of pearl and jasper sea And fields of Eden rarely sweet.