BALDER'S WIFE

HER casement like a watchful eye
From the face of the wall looks down,
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry,
And with ivy leaves so brown.
Her golden head in her lily hand
Like a star in the spray o' the sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low

To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so light and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

Like some bright honey-hearted rose
That the wild wind rudely mocks,

She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close

Hemmed in with a world of rocks.
The livelong night she doth not stir,
But keeps at her casement lorn,

And the skirts of the darkness shine with her
As they shine with the light o' the morn,
And all who pass may hear her lay,
But let it be what tune it may,
It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

And there, within that one-eyed tower, Lashed round with the ivy brown, She droops like some unpitied flower That the rain-fall washes down:

The damp o' the dew in her golden hair,
Her cheek like the spray o' the sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so glad and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.
ALICE CARY

NEARER HOME

ONE Sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream, That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm:

Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet

Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust;

Let my spirit feel in death,
That her feet are firmly set

On the rock of a living faith!
PHOEBE CARY

THE MASTER'S INVITATION DEAR Lord, thy table is outspread;

What other could such feast afford?

And thou art waiting at the head,
But I am all unworthy, Lord;
Yet do I hear thee say,
(Was ever love so free ?)
Come hither, son, to-day

And sit and sup with me.

O master! I am full of doubt,

My heart with sin and fear defiled; Come thou, and cast the tempter out, And make me as a little child;

Methinks I hear thee say,
Come thou, at once, and see
What love can take away,

And what confer on thee.

My Lord! to thee I fain would go,
Yet tarry now I know not why;
Speak, if to tell what well I know,
That none are half so vile as I.
What do I hear thee say?

Look, trembling one, and see
These tokens, which to-day

Tell what I did for thee.

Nay, Lord! I could not here forget
What thou didst for my ransom give;
The garden prayer, the bloody sweat,
All this and more, that I might live.
I hear thee sadly say,-

If this remembered be,
Why linger thus to-day?

Why doubt and question me?

Oh, love to angels all unknown !
I turn from sin and self aside;
Thou hast the idol self o'erthrown,
I only see the Crucified;
I only hear thee say,

A feast is spread for thee
On this and every day,
If thou but follow me!

ANSON DAVIES FITZ RANDOLPH

TO A YOUNG CHILD

As doth his heart who travels far from home

Leap up whenever he by chance doth

see

One from his mother-country lately come, Friend from my home-thus do I welcome thee.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,

Float in upon the mist;

The waves are broken precious stones,Sapphire and amethyst

Washed from celestial basement walls,
By suns unsetting kist.

Out through the utmost gates of space,
Past where the gray stars drift,
To the widening Infinite, my soul
Glides on, a vessel swift,
Yet loses not her anchorage
In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child;
The threshold of God's door
Is that clear band of chrysoprase;
Now the vast temple floor,
The blinding glory of the dome
I bow my head before.
Thy universe, O God, is home,
In height or depth, to me;

And soon the sad wind and dark ocean unceasingly sang unto me, "The lovely, the lost Olivia will never return to thee !"

Dim and still the landscape lies, but shadowless as heaven,

For the growing morn and the low west moon on everything shine even; The ghosts of the lost have departed, that nothing can ever redeem, And Nature, in light, sweet slumber, is dreaming her morning dream.

'Tis morn and our Lord has awakened, and the souls of the blessed are free. O, come from the caves of the ocean! Olivia, return unto me!

What thrills me? What comes near me? Do I stand on the sward alone? Was that a light wind, or a whisper? a touch, or the pulse of a tone? Olivia! whose spells from my slumber my broken heart sway and control, At length bring'st thou death to me, dearest, or rest to my suffering soul? No sound but the psalm of the ocean: "Bow down to the solemn decree, The lovely, the lost Olivia will never return to thee ! "

With the light in his eyes of a young man's dream,

As he thought of his wedding on New Year's Day

To Ruth, the maid with the bonnie brown hair,

And eyes of the deepest, sunniest blue, Modest and winsome, and wondrous fair, And true to her troth, for her heart was true.

"Thou's surely not going!" shouted mine host,

"Thou 'll be lost in the drift, as sure as thou's born;

Thy lass winnot want to wed wi' a ghost, And that's what thou 'll be on Christmas

morn.

"It's eleven long miles from Skipton toon To Blueberg hooses 'e Washburn dale: Thou had better turn back and sit thee doon,

And comfort thy heart wi' a drop o' good ale."