They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;

On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

Over her eyes which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; well

With a tender touch they closed up The sweet, thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows and beautiful face

He and she; still she did not move
To any one passionate whisper of love.

Then he said: "Cold lips, and breast without breath!

Is there no voice! no language of death?

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall? "Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

And drew on her white feet her white

silk shoes;

choose;

Stately forests waved their giant

branches,

Mountains hurled their snowy ava

lanches,

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;

Nature revelled in grand mysteries; But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees,

Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,

No one came to note it day by day.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion

Of the deep, strong currents of the

ocean;

Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,

Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,

Covered it, and hid it safe away.

O, the long, long centuries since that day!

O, the agony, O, life's bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful man

Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep;

From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there

ran

Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, Veinings leafage, fibres clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line! So, I think, God hides some souls

away,

Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

UNKNOWN.

UNSEEN.

AT the spring of an arch in the great north tower,

High up on the wall, is an angel's head;

And beneath it is carved a lily flower, With delicate wings at the side out

spread.

They say that the sculptor wrought from the face

Of his youth's lost love, of his promised bride,

And when he had added the last sad grace

To the features, he dropped his chisel and died.

And the worshippers throng to the shrine below,

And the sight-seers come with their curious eyes,

But deep in the shadow, where none may know

Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies.

Yet at early morn on a midsummer's day,

When the sun is far to the north, for the space

Of a few short minutes, there falls a ray Through an amber pane on the angel's face.

Some craving for an unknown good, That in the spirit fluttered,

319

Our footsteps sought the humble house Unmarked by cross or towering steeple, Where for their First-day gathering came God's plain and simple people?

The air was soft, the sky was large,

The grass as gay with golden flowers
As if the last night's sky had fallen
On earth in starry showers.

And, as we walked, the apple-trees
Shed their late bloom for every comer;
Our souls drank deep of joy and peace,
For it was youth and summer.

Yet through the doorway, rude and low,
The plain-robed folk we followed after,
Our steps, like theirs, demure and slow,
Our lips as free from laughter.

We sat apart, but still were near
As souls may draw unto each other