214

'AS ONE WHOM HIS MOTHER COMFORTETH

And yet we are such children, foolish, weak and

blind,

That while we long for sleep, thy gentle hand May change the calming cup, and far more wise and kind,

Give needed bitterness with this command:

"Drink, child !" Thy Father's love shall make the unsought draught

Sweet to thy soul, though bitter to thy lips. Think, how for thee, thy sinless Elder Brother

quaffed

The cup thou filled'st, 'neath my love's eclipse.

Ah, Father! whatsoe'er thy children truly need
Thou givest, not whatever they implore.
And oft we grieving think, Thy mercy gives nо
heed

To our rash pleadings, when our hearts are sore.

But when the long sad lesson we have learned a length,

And with unmurmuring meckness we receive The cup, whose bitter draught gives new and mighty strength,

We own Thy wise true love, and no more grieve

“AS ONE WHOM HIS MOTHER COMFORTETH." 215

But rest in patient hope, although Thou long with hold

The chalice. Death and Life brimmed, chris mal seal

Of conquest at whose touch the pearly gates unfold,

And Heaven's high glories to the soul reveal.

We only wait as minors, till the glad birth-day Shall crown us kings before our Father's throne. As princely exiles here, we struggle, toil, and pray, With eyes by watching very weary grown.

For comfortless, aye, orphan'd, Thou dost never make

Thy children. Trusting hearts are kept in peace, And when our night-time comes, Thou'lt bid us sleep to wake

Where every sob is hushed and sorrows cease.

216

MARY.

MARY.

THE box is not of stainless alabaster

Which o'er thy feet I break;

Nor filled with costly ointment, gracious Master, Poured for Thy sake.

Nay, rather is it shapen in this fashion

A living heart,

Dashed all across with scarlet stains of passion,
And broke in part;

While from its open wound comes softly dripping
Like slow tears shed,

Or heavy drops, along thy footstool slipping,
Its life-blood red.

It needs no balm of myrrh for sweet or bitter,
But life and love;

The sad conditions make mine offering fitter
Thy heart to move.

rom all these claims of cruel wrong and anguish, This load of grief

Wherewith my soul doth pant, and mourn, and lan

Give me relief!

[guish

EVENING.

217

In thy far home is not thy soul still tender

For mortal woe?

Hear'st thou not still, amid that spotless splendor That seraphs know?

O, turn thy human eyes from heavenly glory!
Say, as before,

Those tenderest words of all thy Gospel story :

G

EVENING.

ENTLY the dew falls on the grass,

The winds are hushed to rest,
And softly sinks the crescent moon,
Adown the quiet west.

And one by one, as shadows fall,
The stars come out on high,

Till in full brightness spreads unveiled,
The glory of the sky,

I sit upon the summer hills,

Far from the noisy throng,

And hear the modest night-bird sing
Her low and plaintive song.

The little streamlets bright and clear
Go singing on their way.

While countless insect voices weave
Their never-ending lay.

O God, in such an hour as this,
How yearns the soul to know
The mysteries of the heavens above
And of the earth below!

An atom in the boundless whole,
A speck upon the air,

I seem as one engulfed and lost,
Without a Father's care.

My life I draw, I know not how.
From the mysterious past;
Before me stretches all unknown
A future strange and vast.

What part have I in this wide realm?
What place have I to fill?

Or can the smallest issue hang

Upon my wavering will?

Yet folded in these shades of night
My busy thoughts arise,

To range afar the fields of earth,

And wander through the skies.