Poems

Prince of peace, the Heavenly King As a mortal babe disguised, He appeared whom angels sing, Earth-disguised. Empty-handed from his birth, Gifts exceeding pure he brought: Treasures hidden not in earth Jesus brought.

"We search the world for truth; we cull The good, the pure, the beautiful From graven stone, and written scroll; From all old flower fields of the soul; And weary seekers of the best, We come back laden from our quest, To And that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read; And all our treasure of old thought In His harmonious fulness wrought, Who gathers in one sheaf complete The scattered blades of God's own wheat, The common growth, that maketh good His all-embracing Fatherhood. ".

Theory never can equal demonstration. "O Thou! at whose rebuke the grave Back to warm life its sleeper gave: Beneath whose sad and tearful glance The cold and changed countenance Broke the still horror of its trance.

" Speak , Victory! Who are Life's heroes? Unroll thy long annals, and say,— Are they those whom the world called the victors, Who won the success of a day? "The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans Who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst, Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?".

Mighty Truth of Heavenly birth, Angels bring thee near; Rise, ye children of the earth, You are bidden here. Blessings e'er thy steps attend, All "thy paths are peace.

Her years steal by like birds through cloudless skies, Soft singing as they go; She views their flight with sunshine in her eyes, She hears their music low, And on her forehead, beautiful and wise, Shines love's most holy glow. There is no pain for her in Time's soft flight, Her spirit is so fair; Her days shine as they pass her, in the light Her gentle doings wear; On her fair brow I never saw the night, But hope's glad star shone there.

Sport of the changeful multitude, Nor calmly heard, nor understood, Thy song has seemed a trick of art, Thy warnings but the actor's part. With bonds, and scorn, and evil will, The world requites its prophets still.

A certain Pasha, dead these thousand years, Once from his harem fled, in sudden tears, And had this sentence on the city's gate Deeply engraven: "Only God is great!" So those four words, above the city's noise, Hung like the accents of an angel's voice. And evermore, from the high barbican, Saluted each returning caravan.

The west wind clears the morning, The sea shines silvery gray; The night was long, but fresh and strong Awakes the breezy day; Like smoke that flies across the lift, The clouds are faint and thin; And near and far along the bar, The tide comes creeping in. The dreams of midnight showed me A life of loneliness,— A stony shore, that knew no more The bright wave's soft caress; The morning broke, the vision fled— With dawn new hopes begin; The light is sweet, and at my feet The tide comes rolling in.

" The dawn swings incense, silver gray; The night is past; Now comes, triumphant, God's full day; No priest, no church can bar its way; The night is past; How, on this blue Of God's great banner, blaze and glow The words, 'Forgive them: for they know Not what they do. '"— H.