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"I loved, and, blind with passionate ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.
love, I fell,
[U. s. A.]
ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
O prison with the hollow eyes!
O blessed prison-walls! how true
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
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, Be judge, be friend, be Father still, And in thy heaven reign! Thy heaven is mine,—my very soul! Thy words are sweet and strong; They fill my inward silences
With music and with song.
They send me challenges to right,
MARY G. BRAINERD.
[U. s. A.]
I KNOW not what shall befall me,
I see not a step before me,
For perhaps the dreaded future
Has less bitter than I think;
He will stand beside its brink.
It may be he keeps waiting
Till the coming of my feet Some gift of such rare blessedness, Some joy so strangely sweet, That my lips shall only tremble With the thanks they cannot speak.
O restful, blissful ignorance!
"T is blessed not to know,
On the bosom which loves me so!
So I go on not knowing;
I would not if I might;
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
Says, Wherefore should I pray That thou shouldst seek me with thy love, Since thou dost seek alway;
And dost not even wait until
I urge my steps to thee; But in the darkness of my life Art coming still to me?
I would rather walk in the dark with I pray not, then, because I would;
I pray because I must; There is no meaning in my prayer
But thankfulness and trust.
I would not have thee otherwise
Be still thyself, and then I know
But still thy love will beckon me,
And bring me to my home.
And thou wilt hear the thought I mean, And not the words I say;
Wilt hear the thanks among the words
As if thou wert not always good,
Of this thy temple fair.
For, if I ever doubted thee, How could I any more!
And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair.
Darkens with storms or melts in hues
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,
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
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 peacock on the terrace screamed;
Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; The great trees grew i' the avenue, Calm by the sheltered House of Quair.
The pool was still; around its brim The alders sickened all the air;
To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall-black velvet clad,
Sits stately in her oaken chair—
Her daughter broiders by her side,
"Ill fare the brides that come to Quali
"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. "Alas! and ere thy father died
I had not in his heart a share, And now-may God forfend her ill— 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.