A THREEFOLD CHORD. (continued 3)

Lord of suns, and eyes that see, Shine into me, see and show; Leave no darksome spot in me Where thou dost not shining go.

Fill my spirit full of eyes, Doors of light in every part; Open windows to the skies That no moth corrupt my heart.

THE WIND AND THE MOON.

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out! You stare In the air As if crying Beware, Always looking what I am about: I hate to be watched; I will blow you out!"

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds, to sleep Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon!"

He turned in his bed: she was there again! On high In the sky With her one ghost-eye The Moon shone white and alive and plain: Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again!"

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew slim. "With my sledge And my wedge I have knocked off her edge! I will blow," said the Wind, "right fierce and grim, And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim!"

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go that thread!"

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Larger and nearer the shy stars shone: Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down And in town, A merry-mad clown, He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar— When there was that glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage—he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain, For still the Moon-scrap the broader grew The more that he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew—till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind, "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, In good faith, I blew her to death!— First blew her away right out of the sky, Then blew her in: what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nought of the silly affair; For, high In the sky With her one white eye, Motionless miles above the air, She never had heard the great Wind blare.

THE FOOLISH HAREBELL.

A harebell hung her wilful head: "I am tired, so tired! I wish I was dead."

She hung her head in the mossy dell: "If all were over, then all were well!"

The Wind he heard, and was pitiful, And waved her about to make her cool.

"Wind, you are rough!" said the dainty Bell; "Leave me alone—I am not well."

The Wind, at the word of the drooping dame, Sighed to himself and ceased in shame.

"I am hot, so hot!" she moaned and said; "I am withering up; I wish I was dead!"

Then the Sun he pitied her woeful case, And drew a thick veil over his face.

"Cloud go away, and don't be rude," She said; "I do not see why you should!"

The Cloud withdrew. Then the Harebell cried, "I am faint, so faint!—and no water beside!"

The Dew came down its millionfold path: She murmured, "I did not want a bath!"

The Dew went up; the Wind softly crept; The Night came down, and the Harebell slept.

A boy ran past in the morning gray, Plucked the Harebell, and threw her away.

The Harebell shivered, and sighed, "Oh! oh! I am faint indeed! Come, dear Wind, blow."

The Wind blew gently, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

"Sun, dear Sun, I am cold!" she said. He shone; but lower she drooped her head.

"O Rain, I am withering! all the blue Is fading out of me!—come, please do!"

The Rain came down as fast as he could, But for all his good will he could do her no good.

She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said, "Thank you all kindly!" and then she was dead.

Let us hope, let us hope when she comes next year She'll be simple and sweet! But I fear, I fear!

SONG.

I was very cold In the summer weather; The sun shone all his gold, But I was very cold— Alas, we were grown old, Love and I together! Oh, but I was cold In the summer weather!

Sudden I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen: "Truly, scorn did harm her!" I said, and I grew warmer; "Better men the charmer Knows at least a dozen!" I said, and I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen.

Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover; And my heart at rest Lies in the spring's young nest: My love she loves me best, And the frost is over! Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover!

AN IMPROVISATION.

The stars cleave the sky. Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high Is a shining nest!

The hours hurry on. But where is thy flight, Soft pavilion Of motionless night?

Earth gives up her trees To the holy air; They live in the breeze; They are saints at prayer!

Summer night, come from God, On your beauty, I see, A still wave has flowed Of eternity!

EQUITY.

No bird can sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven, And holds the righteous balance always even; No heart can true response to love afford Wherein from one to eight not every chord Is yet attuned by the spirits seven: For tuneful no bird sings but that the Lord Is throned in equity above high heaven.

Oh heart, by wrong unfilial scathed and scored, And from thy humble throne with mazedness driven, Take courage: when thy wrongs thou hast forgiven, Thy rights in love thy God will see restored: No bird could sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven.

CONTRITION.

Out of the gulf into the glory, Father, my soul cries out to be lifted. Dark is the woof of my dismal story, Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!— Out of the gulf into the glory, Lift me, and save my story.

I have done many things merely shameful; I am a man ashamed, my father! My life is ashamed and broken and blameful— The broken and blameful, oh, cleanse and gather! Heartily shame me, Lord, of the shameful! To my judge I flee with my blameful.

Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity, Think what it is, not to be pure! Strong in thy love's essential security, Think upon those who are never secure. Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity: Fold me in love's security.

O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching! Help it to ache as much as is needful; Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking, Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful? Sick of my past, of my own self aching— Hurt on, dear hands, with your making.

Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel, Proud of myself, I forgot my donor; Down in the dust I began to nestle, Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour! Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel! In the dust of thy glory I nestle.

THE CONSOLER: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'S Christus Consolator.

I.

What human form is this? what form divine? And who are these that gaze upon his face Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace, With whose reflected light the gazers shine? Saviour, who does not know it to be thine? Who does not long to fill a gazer's place? And yet there is no time, there is no space To keep away thy servants from thy shrine! Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes, Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see, Thou art not too far to turn and look on me, To speak to me, and to receive my sighs. Therefore for ever I forget the skies, And find an everlasting Sun in thee.

II.

Oh let us never leave that happy throng! From that low attitude of love not cease! In all the world there is no other peace, In all the world no other shield from wrong. But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long— For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase— But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong, Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release. We wander from thy fold's free holy air, Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin! But if thou keep us evermore within, We never surely can forget thee there— Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear, And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!

III.

To speak of him in language of our own, Is not for us too daringly to try; But, Saviour, we can read thy history Upon the faces round thy humble throne; And as the flower among the grass makes known What summer suns have warmed it from the sky, As every human smile and human sigh Is witness that we do not live alone, So in that company—in those sweet tears, The first-born of a rugged melted heart, In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart, And in the words that weeping mother hears, We read the story of two thousand years, And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.

TO ——

I cannot write old verses here, Dead things a thousand years away, When all the life of the young year Is in the summer day.

The roses make the world so sweet, The bees, the birds have such a tune, There's such a light and such a heat And such a joy this June,

One must expand one's heart with praise, And make the memory secure Of sunshine and the woodland days And summer twilights pure.

Oh listen rather! Nature's song Comes from the waters, beating tides, Green-margined rivers, and the throng Of streams on mountain-sides.

So fair those water-spirits are, Such happy strength their music fills, Our joy shall be to wander far And find them on the hills.

TO A SISTER.

A fresh young voice that sings to me So often many a simple thing, Should surely not unanswered be By all that I can sing.

Dear voice, be happy every way A thousand changing tones among, From little child's unfinished lay To angel's perfect song.

In dewy woods—fair, soft, and green Like morning woods are childhood's bower— Be like the voice of brook unseen Among the stones and flowers;

A joyful voice though born so low, And making all its neighbours glad; Sweet, hidden, constant in its flow Even when the winds are sad.

So, strengthen in a peaceful home, And daily deeper meanings bear; And when life's wildernesses come Be brave and faithful there.

Try all the glorious magic range, Worship, forgive, console, rejoice, Until the last and sweetest change— So live and grow, dear voice.

THE SHORTEST AND SWEETEST OF SONGS.

Come Home.