"Ah!" he cried, "I've called so often; never heard the 'Here am I';

And I thought, God will not pity; will not turn on me His eye."

Then the grave Elias answered, "God said, 'Rise, Elias, go;

Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his gulf of woe.

"Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering cry;

That his prayer, "Come, gracious Allah!" is my answer, "Here am I.""

Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undefiled; And in every "O my Father!" slumbers deep a "Here, my child!"

DSCHELADEDDIN

Translation by Dr. James Freeman Clarke

181

OPPORTUNITY

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged

A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's ban-

ner

Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge,

And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this
Blunt thing!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And, lowering, crept away, and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed the enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

182

A TURKISH LEGEND

A certain pasha, dead five thousand years,
Once from his harem fled in sudden tears,

And had this sentence on the city's gate
Deeply engraven, " Only God is great."

So these four words above the city's noise
Hung like the accents of an angel's voice,

And evermore from the high barbican,
Saluted each returning caravan.

Lost is that city's glory. Every gust

Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown pasha's dust,

And all is ruin, save one wrinkled gate

Whereon is written, "Only God is great."

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

183

NOW

Rise! for the day is passing,

And you lie dreaming on;

The others have buckled their armor
And forth to fight have gone ;
A place in the ranks awaits you,
Each one has some part to play—
The past and the future are nothing
In the face of the stern to-day.

Rise from your dreams of the future, Of gaining some hard-fought field,

Of storming some air fortress,

Of bidding some giant yield; Your future has deeds of glory, Of honor God grant it may! But your arm will never be stronger, Or the need so great as to-day.

Rise! if the past detains you,

Her sunshine and storms forget; No claims so unworthy to hold you

As those of vain regret;

Sad or bright, she is lifeless forever,-
Cast her phantom arms away,
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson
Of a nobler strife to-day.

Rise! for the day is passing!

The low sound that you scarcely hear
Is the enemy marching to battle-
Arise! for the foe is near!

Stay not to sharpen your weapons,
Or the hour will strike at last,

When from dreams of a coming battle,
You will wake to find it past.

ADELAIDE ANN PROCTOR

184

RANSOM

All men must give some hostage unto Fate
For this strange boon of living. Blest is he
Who with poor loss of gold or land is free;
Nor yet unhappy is his fair estate

On whom kind Death all tenderly doth wait

To take his treasure. Larger swells the fee He counts to Fortune from whom Love doth flee, Or change unto the scowling brows of Hate.

More sad, alas! his deeply mournful lot

Whose hand the clasp of Friendship hath forgot; But costliest price of all the soul must pay,

Which for some lure of earthly power or pride Hath cast its heritage of Heaven aside, And for such gaud hath given itself away.

MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE

185

A NAME IN THE SAND

Alone I walked the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand;
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year, the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast,—
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place

Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been, to be no more;
Of me, my frame, the name I bore,
To leave no track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in His hands,

I know a lasting record stands

Inscribed against my name;

Of all this mortal part has wrought,
Of all this thinking soul has thought,
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory or for shame.

HANNAH FLAGG GOULD