"I loved, and, blind with passionate ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. love, I fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell. For God is just, and death for sin is well. "I do not rage against his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me. "Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain Το pay a thousand years of fire and pain." Then said the pitying angel, “Nay, repent That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent Down to the last hour of thy punish ment!" [U. s. A.] ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. O prison with the hollow eyes! O palace of the rose-sweet sin! O blessed prison-walls! how true She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe All the rivers run into the sea. Here, too, a little child Stood by the drift, now blackened and defiled; And with his rosy hands, in earnest play, Scraped the dark crust away. Checking my hurried pace, To watch the busy hands and earnest face, I heard him laugh aloud in pure delight, That underneath, 't was white. Then, through a broken pane, A woman's voice summoned him in again, With softened mother-tones, that half excused The unclean words she used. And as I lingered near, His baby accents fell upon my ear: "See, I can make the snow again for you, All clean and white and new!" Ah! surely God knows best. Our sight is short; faith trusts to him the rest. Sometimes, we know, he gives to human hands To work out his commands. Perhaps he holds apart, By baby fingers, in that mother's heart, WILLIAM C. GANNETT. [U. s. A.] LISTENING FOR GOD. I HEAR it often in the dark, O, may it be that far within Those voices of surprise? Is just the heaven where God himself, O God within, so close to me That every thought is plain, They send me challenges to right, Now journey inward to thyself, UNKNOWN. GOD KNOWETH. I KNOW not what shall befall me, I see not a step before me, For perhaps the dreariest future It may be he has waiting O blissful, restful ignorance! If it keeps me so still in those arms So I go on, not knowing; I would not if I might; I would rather walk in the dark with God, Than go alone in the light; I would rather walk with him by faith Than walk alone by sight. My heart shrinks back from trials JOHN W. CHADWICK. [U. s. A.] A SONG OF TRUST. O LOVE DIVINE, of all that is As tired of sin as any child When just for very weariness And looking upward to thy face, I pray thee turn me not away, And yet the spirit in my heart And dost not even wait until I pray not, then, because I would; I would not have thee otherwise But still thy love will beckon me, And bring me to my home. And thou wilt hear the thought I mean, As if thou wert not always good, For, if I ever doubted thee, And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair. above, Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love; While far remote, Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire, Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir; Their innocent love's desire Poured in a rill of song from each harmonious throat. My walls are crumbling, but immortal looks The days hold on their wonted pace, While women keep the House of Quair. And one is clad in widow's weeds, And one is maiden-like and fair, To see the trout leap in the streams, Smile on me here from faces of rare The maiden loves in pensive dreams books: Shakespeare consoles My heart with true philosophies; a balm Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls! And more than all, o'er shattered The relics of a happier time and state, Shines on unquenched! O deathless love that lies In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes! Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife! ISA CRAIG KNOX. BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. A STILLNESS crept about the house, The many-windowed House of Quair. The peacock on the terrace screamed; Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; The pool was still; around its brim To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall-black velvet clad, Sits stately in her oaken chairA stately dame of ancient name The mother of the House of Quair. Her daughter broiders by her side, And listens to her frequent plaint, — "Ill fare the brides that come to Quair. "For more than one hath lived in pine, And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the House of Quair. Thy brother brings his bride to Quair.” She came; they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair, They led her to the chamber high, The fairest in the House of Quair. |