Poems

Oh gentle Patience, plodding slow the way! Thou sober-robed one, no light is shed Of holy aureole around thy head, To show thou art a saint of heavenly sway! We love the winged ones, and would array Ourselves beside the glowing Faith, deep-eyed, And fly with Hope to yonder mountain side; For Patience is a homely maid, we say. But ah, the hour when heavy shadows fall, And sore feet stumble; when we cannot see Fair Hope, or Faith, but doubt and darkness, all! Aye, then, through night and gloom shines gloriously Thy simple face; and sweet the tender call, " My steps alone are slow enough for thee!".

All hail the wondrous gift of Love, The Home of Peace, which, like the dove, Descends upon the gathered throng, And gratitude is voiced in song. Here Truth will touch the waiting thought, And care and sorrow come to naught, For God is all and Love is here, And this is Heaven's own atmosphere.

They laid him in a vaulted tomb,— The Lord they'd pierced on Calvary, Consigned, thought they, to Lethe's gloom, By priesthood's pomp and heraldry. A stone they rolled before the door,— No more need scribe and priest complain; Forgetful they how, long before, He'd called the dead to life again.

Within our hearts what happy memories well To-day, and a new love in us compel! The by-gone years return, with only their Remembered tenderness, and, unaware Of age and change, the old-time love re-tell. But while we feast, we cannot quite dispel Regret for lost ones whom we love so well.

There dwells one bright immortal on the earth, Not known of men. They who know her not Go hence forgotten from the House of Life, Sons of oblivion.

Tho' human love may fail And friends deny, How can I courage lose, Since Thou art nigh? Thy Love doth still supply me In my need; Thy hand as truly guide,— A friend, indeed. Then let me never grieve, Nor yet repine, For, though all else forsake me, Thou art mine; Thy tenderness and love Beyond compare! Thy Substance and thy Truth Are still my share.

Hear ye the song of the angels, Singing so sweet and low, Peace to the troubled spirit, Joy to the world below? Hear ye the song of the angels, At the first faint flush of morn, Thrilling the soul with rapture E'er sorrow and care are born? Hear ye the song of the angels, In the noontide's heat and glare, Breathing the peace of Heaven, Soothing the heart of care? Ever thy good angel singeth, The old, sweet song of peace; Didst thou but list' to its music The discords of earth would cease. — Jennie Walbridge Briggs.

Within our hearts what happy memories dwell To-day, and a new love in us compel! The by-gone years return, with only their Remembered tenderness, and, unaware Of age and change, the old-time love re-tell. But while we feast, we cannot quite dispel Regret for lost ones whom we love so well.

Oh , Child of Light, awake,    The Dawn of Christ is here; The Day of Love begins to break,    So bright, so calm, so clear. Oh, Love-lit age, awake,    And list the grand refrain, Which o'er the world doth break,    To still the voice of pain.

With ear attuned, and alert eye The Lord can never pass me by. I see His majesty and might Where mountains loom in towering height, Where pond'rous waves with ceaseless roar In fury lash the circling shore.