Poems

The suffering child, with an unerring trust, Clings only to the one who loves him most; The mother-touch alone can still his cry, The mother-love alone his needs supply. How oft have we, children of riper years, Longed to regain the trust that calms all fears.

Our Saviour's prayer has often been versified and set to music, notably to the tune Home Sweet Home. Why not Mrs.

Do saints keep holy clay in heavenly places? Does the old joy shine new in angel faces? Are hymns still sung the night when Christ was born, And anthems on the Resurrection Morn? Because our little year of earth is run, Do they make record there beyond the sun? And in their homes of light, so far away, Mark with us the sweet coming of this day? What is their Easter? For they have no graves; No shadow there the holy sunrise craves,— Deep in the heart of noontide marvellous, Whose breaking glory reaches down to us. How did the Lord keep Easter? With his own! Back to meet Mary, where she grieved alone; With face and mien, all tenderly the same, Unto the very sepulchre he came.

Shower and smile Flower and wile,— April, please remember,— Thus in file, Us beguile, Until earth's last ember.

"Let us keep the feast with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth. " Let us not bring, upon this joyful morning, Dead myrrh and spices for our Lord's adorning, Nor any lifeless thing.

Dear Grandpa Lee, with little Grace, Followed the pathway to the mill; Bright daisies starred the shady lane, And now and then a bird would trill. Thus happily they onward went, Till Grace cried, "There is little Kate, And Frank and Nellie, too—and oh! Nell's swinging on the garden-gate!" As Grace and Grandpa came in sight, The little ones to meet them sped, Their eager, prattling lips apart, Eyes flashing bright, and cheeks rose-red.

"Light, more light," the poet cried, Ere he bowed his head and died; Light more light, on earth's dark way, Leading to immortal day. Long ago, in Holy Land, Lived there one by God's right hand,— Never absent from God's sphere, Though he lived among us here.

I dreamed my spirit broke the bars of sense, That hold the gates of consciousness shut fast,— Threw off the prison garb of self, and passed Into the wonder of omniscience. As mists that rise from ocean, and condense In clouds, in million raindrops melt, at last, Through brooks and rivers, join again the vast Primeval sea—so do I read the whence And whither of the soul.

March on, ye Child of Progress, In the fight ne'er falter; Through the eternal ages, God's law doth not alter. He is a guide unflinching, Full of grace and pity; His is a path unerring, Leading to Truth's city.

Now that I have thee, thou art ever near; A gift from the All-love, I hold thee dear. Our ways may lie apart, earth may divide, But Heaven, my friend, will find us side by side.