THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR.

  Methought that in a solemn church I stood.
  Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet,
  Lay spread from door to door, from street to street.
  Midway the form hung high upon the rood
  Of him who gave his life to be our good;
  Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet,
  Among the candles shining still and sweet.
  Men came and went, and worshipped as they could—
  And still their dust a woman with her broom,
  Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door.
  Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom,
  Across the church a silent figure come:
  "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!"
  It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more.

DEATH.

  Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
  A fresher birth brings every new year in.
  Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.
  See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!
  My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,
  Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.
  —Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!
  Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:—
  Behind me comes a shining one indeed;
  Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down,
  And set upon his day night's starry crown!
  Death, say'st thou? Nay—thine be no caitiff creed!—
  A woman-angel! see—in long white gown!
  The mother of our youth!—she maketh speed.

ORGAN SONGS.

TO A. J. SCOTT

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

  I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.
  Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,
  Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed

  A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain.
  Closed were the lofty doors that led within;
  But by a wicket one might entrance gain.

  'Twas awe and silence when I entered in;
  The night, the weariness, the rain were lost
  In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin

  Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed,
  As if they sought some harmony to find
  Which they knew once, but none of all that host

  Could wile the far-fled music back to mind.
  Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along
  The pillared paths, and up the arches twined

  With sister arches, rising, throng on throng,
  Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times
  The voices gathered to a burst of song,

  But parted sudden, and were but single rimes
  By single bells through Sabbath morning sent,
  That have no thought of harmony or chimes.

  Hopeful confusion! Who could be content
  Looking and hearkening from the distant door?
  I entered further. Solemnly it went—

  Thy voice, Truth's herald, walking the untuned roar,
  Calm and distinct, powerful and sweet and fine:
  I loved and listened, listened and loved more.

  May not the faint harp, tremulous, combine
  Its ghostlike sounds with organ's mighty tone?
  Let my poor song be taken in to thine.

  Will not thy heart, with tempests of its own,
  Yet hear aeolian sighs from thin chords blown?

LIGHT.

  First-born of the creating Voice!
  Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent
  Waiting upon him first, what time he went
  Moving about mid the tumultuous noise
  Of each unpiloted element
  Upon the face of the void formless deep!
  Thou who didst come unbodied and alone
  Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep,
  Or ever the moon shone,
  Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven!
  Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt
  Sweeps, glory-giving, over earth and heaven!
  Thou comforter, be with me as thou wert
  When first I longed for words, to be
  A radiant garment for my thought, like thee!

  We lay us down in sorrow,
  Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night;
  In vexing dreams we strive until the morrow;
  Grief lifts our eyelids up—and Lo, the light!
  The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise
  Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies;
  Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests;
  Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down;
  Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts;
  Of clouds that show thy glory as their own;
  O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by!
  Light, gladness, motion, are reality!

  Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs
  Far up to catch thy glory on his wings;
  And thou dost bless him first that highest soars.
  The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers
  Worship thee all day long, and through the skies
  Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes.
  River of life, thou pourest on the woods,
  And on thy waves float out the wakening buds;
  The trees lean toward thee, and, in loving pain,
  Keep turning still to see thee yet again;
  South sides of pines, haunted all day by thee,
  Bear violins that tremble humanly.
  And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low:
  Where'er thou art, on every side,
  All things are glorified;
  And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw
  Beautiful shadows, made out of the dark,
  That else were shapeless; now it bears thy mark.

  And men have worshipped thee.
  The Persian, on his mountain-top,
  Waits kneeling till thy sun go up,
  God-like in his serenity.
  All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near,
  And the wide earth waits till his face appear—
  Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps
  Along the ridges of the outlying clouds,
  Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps.
  Sudden, still multitudinous laughter crowds
  The universal face: Lo, silently,
  Up cometh he, the never-closing eye!
  Symbol of Deity, men could not be
  Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee!

  Thou plaything of the child,
  When from the water's surface thou dost spring,
  Thyself upon his chamber ceiling fling,
  And there, in mazy dance and motion wild,
  Disport thyself—etherial, undefiled.
  Capricious, like the thinkings of the child!
  I am a child again, to think of thee
  In thy consummate glee.
  How I would play with thee, athirst to climb
  On sloping ladders of thy moted beams,
  When through the gray dust darting in long streams!
  How marvel at the dusky glimmering red,
  With which my closed fingers thou hadst made
  Like rainy clouds that curtain the sun's bed!
  And how I loved thee always in the moon!
  But most about the harvest-time,
  When corn and moonlight made a mellow tune,
  And thou wast grave and tender as a cooing dove!
  And then the stars that flashed cold, deathless love!
  And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide!
  And more mysterious earthly stars,
  That shone from windows of the hill and glen—
  Thee prisoned in with lattice-bars,
  Mingling with household love and rest of weary men!
  And still I am a child, thank God!—to spy
  Thee starry stream from bit of broken glass
  Upon the brown earth undescried,
  Is a found thing to me, a gladness high,
  A spark that lights joy's altar-fire within,
  A thought of hope to prophecy akin,
  That from my spirit fruitless will not pass.

                  Thou art the joy of age:
  Thy sun is dear when long the shadow falls.
  Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls,
  And, like the bird hung out in his poor cage
  To gather song from radiance, in his chair
  Sits by the door; and sitteth there
  His soul within him, like a child that lies
  Half dreaming, with half-open eyes,
  At close of a long afternoon in summer—
  High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where
  The raven is almost the only comer—
  Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment
  At thy celestial ascent
  Through rifted loop to light upon the gold
  That waves its bloom in some high airy rent:
  So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old,
  But sleepy mid the ruins that infold.

              What soul-like changes, evanescent moods,
  Upon the face of the still passive earth,
  Its hills, and fields, and woods,
  Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art ever calling forth!
  Even like a lord of music bent
  Over his instrument,
  Giving to carol, now to tempest birth!
  When, clear as holiness, the morning ray
  Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its feet,
  Mottling with shadows all the mountain gray;
  When, at the hour of sovereign noon,
  Infinite silent cataracts sheet
  Shadowless through the air of thunder-breeding June;
  When now a yellower glory slanting passes
  'Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow grasses;
  And now the moon lifts up her shining shield,
  High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed;
  Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away,
  Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray,
  Her still face seeming more to think than see,
  Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams of thee!
  No mood, eternal or ephemeral,
  But wakes obedient at thy silent call!

  Of operative single power,
  And simple unity the one emblem,
  Yet all the colours that our passionate eyes devour,
  In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem,
  Are the melodious descant of divided thee.
  Lo thee in yellow sands! Lo thee
  In the blue air and sea!
  In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit,
  Thy half-souls parted, patient thou dost sit.
  Lo thee in dying triumphs of the west!
  Lo thee in dew-drop's tiny breast!
  Thee on the vast white cloud that floats away,
  Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray!
  Gold-regent, thou dost spendthrift throw
  Thy hoardless wealth of gleam and glow!
  The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers
  Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours;
  The jewelled ores in mines that hidden be,
  Are dead till touched by thee.

                                Everywhere,
  Thou art lancing through the air!
  Every atom from another
  Takes thee, gives thee to his brother;
  Continually,
  Thou art wetting the wet sea,
  Bathing its sluggish woods below,
  Making the salt flowers bud and blow;
  Silently,
  Workest thou, and ardently,
  Waking from the night of nought
  Into being and to thought;

                      Influences
  Every beam of thine dispenses,
  Potent, subtle, reaching far,
  Shooting different from each star.
  Not an iron rod can lie
  In circle of thy beamy eye,
  But its look doth change it so
  That it cannot choose but show
  Thou, the worker, hast been there;
  Yea, sometimes, on substance rare,
  Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark
  Even in what men call the dark.
  Ever doing, ever showing,
  Thou dost set our hearts a glowing—
  Universal something sent
  To shadow forth the Excellent!

  When the firstborn affections—
  Those winged seekers of the world within,
  That search about in all directions,
  Some bright thing for themselves to win—
  Through pathless woods, through home-bred fogs,
  Through stony plains, through treacherous bogs,
  Long, long, have followed faces fair,
  Fair soul-less faces, vanished into air,
  And darkness is around them and above,
  Desolate of aught to love,
  And through the gloom on every side,
  Strange dismal forms are dim descried,
  And the air is as the breath
  From the lips of void-eyed Death,
  And the knees are bowed in prayer
  To the Stronger than despair—
  Then the ever-lifted cry,
  Give us light, or we shall die,
  Cometh to the Father's ears,
  And he hearkens, and he hears:—

  As some slow sun would glimmer forth
  From sunless winter of the north,
  We, hardly trusting hopeful eyes,
  Discern and doubt the opening skies.
  From a misty gray that lies on
  Our dim future's far horizon,
  It grows a fresh aurora, sent
  Up the spirit's firmament,
  Telling, through the vapours dun,
  Of the coming, coming sun!
  Tis Truth awaking in the soul!
  His Righteousness to make us whole!
  And what shall we, this Truth receiving,
  Though with but a faint believing,
  Call it but eternal Light?
  'Tis the morning, 'twas the night!

               All things most excellent
  Are likened unto thee, excellent thing!
  Yea, he who from the Father forth was sent,
  Came like a lamp, to bring,
  Across the winds and wastes of night,
  The everlasting light.
  Hail, Word of God, the telling of his thought!
  Hail, Light of God, the making-visible!
  Hail, far-transcending glory brought
  In human form with man to dwell—
  Thy dazzling gone; thy power not less
  To show, irradiate, and bless;
  The gathering of the primal rays divine
  Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine!

         Dull horrid pools no motion making!
  No bubble on the surface breaking!
  The dead air lies, without a sound,
  Heavy and moveless on the marshy ground.

  Rushing winds and snow-like drift,
  Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift!
  Hair-like vapours madly riven!
  Waters smitten into dust!
  Lightning through the turmoil driven,
  Aimless, useless, yet it must!

  Gentle winds through forests calling!
  Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing!
  Solemn waves on sea-shores falling!
  White sails on blue waters dancing!
  Mountain streams glad music giving!
  Children in the clear pool laving!
  Yellow corn and green grass waving!
  Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living!
  Light, O radiant, it is thou!
  Light!—we know our Father now!

  Forming ever without form;
  Showing, but thyself unseen;
  Pouring stillness on the storm;
  Breathing life where death had been!
  If thy light thou didst draw in,
  Death and Chaos soon were out,
  Weltering o'er the slimy sea,
  Riding on the whirlwind's rout,
  In wild unmaking energy!
  God, be round us and within,
  Fighting darkness, slaying sin.

  Father of Lights, high-lost, unspeakable,
  On whom no changing shadow ever fell!
  Thy light we know not, are content to see;
  Thee we know not, and are content to be!—
  Nay, nay! until we know thee, not content are we!
  But, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed,
  Shall we imagine darkness in thy breast?
  Our hearts awake and witness loud for thee!
  The very shadows on our souls that lie,
  Good witness to the light supernal bear;
  The something 'twixt us and the sky
  Could cast no shadow if light were not there!
  If children tremble in the night,
  It is because their God is light!
  The shining of the common day
  Is mystery still, howe'er it ebb and flow—
  Behind the seeing orb, the secret lies:
  Thy living light's eternal play,
  Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?—
  Behind the life itself, its fountains rise!
  In thee, the Light, the darkness hath no place;
  And we have seen thee in the Saviour's face.

  Enlighten me, O Light!—why art thou such?
  Why art thou awful to our eyes, and sweet?
  Cherished as love, and slaying with a touch?
  Why in thee do the known and unknown meet?
  Why swift and tender, strong and delicate?
  Simple as truth, yet manifold in might?
  Why does one love thee, and another hate?
  Why cleave my words to the portals of my speech
  When I a goodly matter would indite?
  Why mounts my thought of thee beyond my reach?
  —In vain to follow thee, I thee beseech,
  For God is light.

TO A. J. SCOTT.

  When, long ago, the daring of my youth
  Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing,
  Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth

  Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering,
  Made homely by the tenderness and grace
  Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling

  A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face
  From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray,
  Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.

  I see thee far before me on thy way
  Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still;
  Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,

  Upheld and ordered by a regnant will;
  Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate,
  Searching all truths its prophecy to fill;

  But this my joy: throned in thy heart so great,
  High Love is queen, and sits without a mate.

May, 1857.

I WOULD I WERE A CHILD.

    I would I were a child,
  That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
  And follow thee with running feet, or rather
      Be led through dark and wild!

      How I would hold thy hand,
  My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting!
  Should darkness 'twixt thy face and mine come drifting,
      My heart would but expand.

      If an ill thing came near,
  I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,
  Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
      And soon forget my fear.

      O soul, O soul, rejoice!
  Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;
  A poor weak child, yet his, and worth the winning
      With saviour eyes and voice.

      Who spake the words? Didst Thou?
  They are too good, even for such a giver:
  Such water drinking once, I should feel ever
      As I had drunk but now.

      Yet sure the Word said so,
  Teaching our lips to cry with his, Our Father!
  Telling the tale of him who once did gather
      His goods to him, and go!

      Ah, thou dost lead me, God!
  But it is dark and starless, the way dreary;
  Almost I sleep, I am so very weary
      Upon this rough hill-road.

      Almost! Nay, I do sleep;
  There is no darkness save in this my dreaming;
  Thy fatherhood above, around, is beaming;
      Thy hand my hand doth keep.

      With sighs my soul doth teem;
  I have no knowledge but that I am sleeping;
  Haunted with lies, my life will fail in weeping;
      Wake me from this my dream.

      How long shall heavy night
  Deny the day? How long shall this dull sorrow
  Say in my heart that never any morrow
      Will bring the friendly light?

      Lord, art thou in the room?
  Come near my bed; oh, draw aside the curtain!
  A child's heart would say Father, were it certain
      That it would not presume.

      But if this dreary sleep
  May not be broken, help thy helpless sleeper
  To rest in thee; so shall his sleep grow deeper—
      For evil dreams too deep.

      Father! I dare at length;
  My childhood sure will hold me free from blaming:
  Sinful yet hoping, I to thee come, claiming
      Thy tenderness, my strength.

A PRAYER FOR THE PAST.

    All sights and sounds of day and year,
  All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
  Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
  To talk to thee of them.

      Too great thy heart is to despise,
  Whose day girds centuries about;
  From things which we name small, thine eyes
  See great things looking out.

      Therefore the prayerful song I sing
  May come to thee in ordered words:
  Though lowly born, it needs not cling
  In terror to its chords.

      I think that nothing made is lost;
  That not a moon has ever shone,
  That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed
  But to my soul is gone.

      That all the lost years garnered lie
  In this thy casket, my dim soul;
  And thou wilt, once, the key apply,
  And show the shining whole.

      But were they dead in me, they live
  In thee, whose Parable is—Time,
  And Worlds, and Forms—all things that give
  Me thoughts, and this my rime.

      And after what men call my death,
  When I have crossed the unknown sea,
  Some heavenly morn, on hopeful breath,
  Shall rise this prayer to thee.

      Oh let me be a child once more,
  And dream fine glories in the gloom,
  Of sun and moon and stars in store
  To ceil my humble room.

      Oh call again the moons that crossed
  Blue gulfs, behind gray vapours crept;
  Show me the solemn skies I lost
  Because in thee I slept.

      Once more let gathering glory swell,
  And lift the world's dim eastern eye;
  Once more let lengthening shadows tell
  Its time is come to die.

      But show me first—oh, blessed sight!
  The lowly house where I was young;
  There winter sent wild winds at night,
  And up the snow-heaps flung;

      Or soundless brought a chaos fair,
  Full, formless, of fantastic forms,
  White ghostly trees in sparkling air—
  Chamber for slumbering storms.

      There sudden dawned a dewy morn;
  A man was turning up the mould;
  And in our hearts the spring was born,
  Crept thither through the cold.

      And Spring, in after years of youth,
  Became the form of every form
  For hearts now bursting into truth,
  Now sighing in the storm.

      On with the glad year let me go,
  With troops of daisies round my feet;
  Flying my kite, or, in the glow
  Of arching summer heat,

      Outstretched in fear upon a bank,
  Lest, gazing up on awful space,
  I should fall down into the blank,
  From off the round world's face.

      And let my brothers come with me
  To play our old games yet again,
  Children on earth, more full of glee
  That we in heaven are men.

      If then should come the shadowy death,
  Take one of us and go,
  We left would say, under our breath,
  "It is a dream, you know!"

      "And in the dream our brother's gone
  Upstairs: he heard our father call;
  For one by one we go alone,
  Till he has gathered all."

      Father, in joy our knees we bow:
  This earth is not a place of tombs:
  We are but in the nursery now;
  They in the upper rooms.

      For are we not at home in thee,
  And all this world a visioned show;
  That, knowing what Abroad is, we
  What Home is too may know?

      And at thy feet I sit, O Lord,
  As once of old, in moonlight pale,
  I at my father's sat, and heard
  Him read a lofty tale.

      On with my history let me go,
  And reap again the gliding years,
  Gather great noontide's joyous glow,
  Eve's love-contented tears;

      One afternoon sit pondering
  In that old chair, in that old room,
  Where passing pigeon's sudden wing
  Flashed lightning through the gloom;

      There try once more, with effort vain,
  To mould in one perplexed things;
  There find the solace yet again
  Hope in the Father brings;

      Or mount and ride in sun and wind,
  Through desert moors, hills bleak and high,
  Where wandering vapours fall, and find
  In me another sky!

      For so thy Visible grew mine,
  Though half its power I could not know;
  And in me wrought a work divine,
  Which thou hadst ordered so;

     Giving me cups that would not spill,
  But water carry and yield again;
  New bottles with new wine to fill
  For comfort of thy men.

      But if thou thus restore the past
  One hour, for me to wander in,
  I now bethink me at the last—
  O Lord, leave out the sin.

      And with the thought comes doubt, my God:
  Shall I the whole desire to see,
  And walk once more, of that hill-road
  By which I went to thee?

A PRAYER FOR THE PAST.

    Now far from my old northern land,
  I live where gentle winters pass;
  Where green seas lave a wealthy strand,
  And unsown is the grass;

      Where gorgeous sunsets claim the scope
  Of gazing heaven to spread their show,
  Hang scarlet clouds in the topmost cope,
  With fringes flaming low;

      With one beside me in whose eyes
  Once more old Nature finds a home;
  There treasures up her changeful skies,
  Her phosphorescent foam.

      O'er a new joy this day we bend,
  Soft power from heaven our souls to lift;
  A wondering wonder thou dost lend
  With loan outpassing gift—

      A little child. She sees the sun—
  Once more incarnates thy old law:
  One born of two, two born in one,
  Shall into one three draw.

      But is there no day creeping on
  Which I should tremble to renew?
  I thank thee, Lord, for what is gone—
  Thine is the future too!

      And are we not at home in Thee,
  And all this world a visioned show,
  That, knowing what Abroad is, we
  What Home is too may know?

LONGING.

  My heart is full of inarticulate pain,
      And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks
  Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain,
      Wise in success, well-read in feeble books,
  No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear;
  'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear.

  Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth,
      Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come;
  Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth;
      Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room;
  Speak not a word, for, see, my spirit lies
  Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes.

  O all wide places, far from feverous towns;
      Great shining seas; pine forests; mountains wild;
  Rock-bosomed shores; rough heaths, and sheep-cropt downs;
      Vast pallid clouds; blue spaces undefiled—
  Room! give me room! give loneliness and air—
  Free things and plenteous in your regions fair!

  White dove of David, flying overhead,
      Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings,
  Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts are fled
      To find a home afar from men of things;
  Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky,
  God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply.

  O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces,
      O God of freedom and of joyous hearts,
  When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces,
      There will be room enough in crowded marts!
  Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er,
  Thy universe my closet with shut door.

  Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all
      Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave.
  God in thee, can his children's folly gall?
      Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?—
  Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm;
  Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm!

I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS.

  I know what beauty is, for thou
      Hast set the world within my heart;
      Of me thou madest it a part;
  I never loved it more than now.

  I know the Sabbath afternoons;
      The light asleep upon the graves:
      Against the sky the poplar waves;
  The river murmurs organ tunes.

  I know the spring with bud and bell;
      The hush in summer woods at night;
      Autumn, when trees let in more light;
  Fantastic winter's lovely spell.

  I know the rapture music gives,
      Its mystery of ordered tones:
      Dream-muffled soul, it loves and moans,
  And, half-alive, comes in and lives.

  And verse I know, whose concord high
      Of thought and music lifts the soul
      Where many a glimmering starry shoal
  Glides through the Godhead's living sky.

  Yea, Beauty's regnant All I know—
      The imperial head, the thoughtful eyes;
      The God-imprisoned harmonies
  That out in gracious motions go.

  But I leave all, O Son of man,
      Put off my shoes, and come to thee!
      Most lovely thou of all I see,
  Most potent thou of all that can!

  As child forsakes his favourite toy,
      His sisters' sport, his new-found nest,
      And, climbing to his mother's breast,
  Enjoys yet more his late-left joy—

  I lose to find. On fair-browed bride
      Fair pearls their fairest light afford;
      So, gathered round thy glory, Lord,
  All glory else is glorified.

SYMPATHY.

  Grief held me silent in my seat;
      I neither moved nor smiled:
  Joy held her silent at my feet,
      My shining lily-child.

  She raised her face and looked in mine;
      She deemed herself denied;
  The door was shut, there was no shine;
      Poor she was left outside!

  Once, twice, three times, with infant grace
      Her lips my name did mould;
  Her face was pulling at my face—
      She was but ten months old.

  I saw; the sight rebuked my sighs;
      It made me think—Does God
  Need help from his poor children's eyes
      To ease him of his load?

  Ah, if he did, how seldom then
      The Father would be glad!
  If comfort lay in the eyes of men,
      He little comfort had!

  We cry to him in evil case,
      When comfort sore we lack;
  And when we troubled seek his face,
      Consoled he sends us back;

  Nor waits for prayer to rise and climb—
      He wakes the sleeping prayer;
  He is our father all the time,
      And servant everywhere.

  I looked not up; foreboding hid
      Kept down my heart the while;
  'Twas he looked up; my Father did
      Smile in my infant's smile.

THE THANK-OFFERING.

  My Lily snatches not my gift;
      Glad is she to be fed,
  But to her mouth she will not lift
      The piece of broken bread,
  Till on my lips, unerring, swift,
      The morsel she has laid.

  This is her grace before her food,
      This her libation poured;
  Even thus his offering, Aaron good
      Heaved up to thank the Lord,
  When for the people all he stood,
      And with a cake adored.

  So, Father, every gift of thine
      I offer at thy knee;
  Else take I not the love divine
      With which it comes to me;
  Not else the offered grace is mine
      Of sharing life with thee.

  Yea, all my being I would bring,
      Yielding it utterly,
  Not yet a full-possessed thing
      Till heaved again to thee:
  Away, my self! away, and cling
      To him that makes thee be!

PRAYER.

  We doubt the word that tells us: Ask,
      And ye shall have your prayer;
  We turn our thoughts as to a task,
      With will constrained and rare.

  And yet we have; these scanty prayers
      Yield gold without alloy:
  O God, but he that trusts and dares
      Must have a boundless joy!

REST.

I.

  When round the earth the Father's hands
      Have gently drawn the dark;
  Sent off the sun to fresher lands,
      And curtained in the lark;
  'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,
      To fade with fading light,
  And lie once more, the old weary way,
      Upfolded in the night.

  If mothers o'er our slumbers bend,
      And unripe kisses reap,
  In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
      Till even in dreams we sleep.
  And if we wake while night is dumb,
      'Tis sweet to turn and say,
  It is an hour ere dawning come,
      And I will sleep till day.

II.

  There is a dearer, warmer bed,
      Where one all day may lie,
  Earth's bosom pillowing the head,
      And let the world go by.
  There come no watching mother's eyes,
      The stars instead look down;
  Upon it breaks, and silent dies,
      The murmur of the town.

  The great world, shouting, forward fares:
      This chamber, hid from none,
  Hides safe from all, for no one cares
      For him whose work is done.
  Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how
      A certain unknown place,
  Or here or there, is waiting now,
      To rest thee from thy race.

III.

  Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms,
      The still composed breath!
  Not there the folding of the arms,
      The cool, the blessed death!
  That needs no curtained bed to hide
      The world with all its wars,
  No grassy cover to divide
      From sun and moon and stars.

  It is a rest that deeper grows
      In midst of pain and strife;
  A mighty, conscious, willed repose,
      The death of deepest life.
  To have and hold the precious prize
      No need of jealous bars;
  But windows open to the skies,
      And skill to read the stars!

IV.

  Who dwelleth in that secret place,
      Where tumult enters not,
  Is never cold with terror base,
      Never with anger hot.
  For if an evil host should dare
      His very heart invest,
  God is his deeper heart, and there
      He enters in to rest.

  When mighty sea-winds madly blow,
      And tear the scattered waves,
  Peaceful as summer woods, below
      Lie darkling ocean caves:
  The wind of words may toss my heart,
      But what is that to me!
  Tis but a surface storm—thou art
      My deep, still, resting sea.

O DO NOT LEAVE ME.

  O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep;
  Till I forget, be near me in that chair.
  The mother's presence leads her down to sleep—
  Leaves her contented there.

  O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends,
  Till I am dead, and resting in my place.
  Love-compassed thus, the girl in peace ascends,
  And leaves a raptured face.

  Leave me not, God, until—nay, until when?
  Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind;
  Not till the Life is Light in me, and then
  Leaving is left behind.

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.

  A quiet heart, submissive, meek,
      Father, do thou bestow,
  Which more than granted, will not seek
      To have, or give, or know.

  Each little hill then holds its gift
      Forth to my joying eyes;
  Each mighty mountain then doth lift
      My spirit to the skies.

  Lo, then the running water sounds
      With gladsome, secret things!
  The silent water more abounds,
      And more the hidden springs.

  Live murmurs then the trees will blend
      With all the feathered song;
  The waving grass low tribute lend
      Earth's music to prolong.

  The sun will cast great crowns of light
      On waves that anthems roar;
  The dusky billows break at night
      In flashes on the shore.

  Each harebell, each white lily's cup,
      The hum of hidden bee,
  Yea, every odour floating up,
      The insect revelry—

  Each hue, each harmony divine
      The holy world about,
  Its soul will send forth into mine,
      My soul to widen out.

  And thus the great earth I shall hold,
      A perfect gift of thine;
  Richer by these, a thousandfold,
      Than if broad lands were mine.

HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL.

  Father, in the dark I lay,
      Thirsting for the light,
  Helpless, but for hope alway
      In thy father-might.

  Out of darkness came the morn,
      Out of death came life,
  I, and faith, and hope, new-born,
      Out of moaning strife!

  So, one morning yet more fair,
      I shall, joyous-brave,
  Sudden breathing loftier air,
      Triumph o'er the grave.

  Though this feeble body lie
      Underneath the ground,
  Wide awake, not sleeping, I
      Shall in him be found.

  But a morn yet fairer must
      Quell this inner gloom—
  Resurrection from the dust
      Of a deeper tomb!

  Father, wake thy little child;
      Give me bread and wine
  Till my spirit undefiled
      Rise and live in thine.

WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN.

  Shepherd, on before thy sheep,
      Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!
  Scarce the track I stumbling keep!
      Through my thin fleece blows the wind!

  Turn and see me, Son of Man!
      Turn and lift thy Father's child;
  Scarce I walk where once I ran:
      Carry me—the wind is wild!

  Thou art strong—thy strength wilt share;
      My poor weight thou wilt not feel;
  Weakness made thee strong to bear,
      Suffering made thee strong to heal!

  I were still a wandering sheep
      But for thee, O Shepherd-man!
  Following now, I faint, I weep,
      Yet I follow as I can!

  Shepherd, if I fall and lie
      Moaning in the frosty wind,
  Yet, I know, I shall not die—
      Thou wilt miss me—and wilt find!

A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862,

THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE.

  The skies are pale, the trees are stiff,
      The earth is dull and old;
  The frost is glittering as if
      The very sun were cold.
  And hunger fell is joined with frost,
      To make men thin and wan:
  Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost;
      Be born, O child of man.

  The children cry, the women shake,
      The strong men stare about;
  They sleep when they should be awake,
      They wake ere night is out.
  For they have lost their heritage—
      No sweat is on their brow:
  Come, babe, and bring them work and wage;
      Be born, and save us now.

  Across the sea, beyond our sight,
      Roars on the fierce debate;
  The men go down in bloody fight,
      The women weep and hate;
  And in the right be which that may,
      Surely the strife is long!
  Come, son of man, thy righteous way,
      And right will have no wrong.

  Good men speak lies against thine own—
      Tongue quick, and hearing slow;
  They will not let thee walk alone,
      And think to serve thee so:
  If they the children's freedom saw
      In thee, the children's king,
  They would be still with holy awe,
      Or only speak to sing.

  Some neither lie nor starve nor fight,
      Nor yet the poor deny;
  But in their hearts all is not right,—
      They often sit and sigh.
  We need thee every day and hour,
      In sunshine and in snow:
  Child-king, we pray with all our power—
      Be born, and save us so.

  We are but men and women, Lord;
      Thou art a gracious child!
  O fill our hearts, and heap our board,
      Pray thee—the winter's wild!
  The sky is sad, the trees are bare,
      Hunger and hate about:
  Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare
      Will soon be driven out.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

  Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap,
      The sun shone in his hair;
  And this was how she saw, mayhap,
      The crown already there.

  For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king;
      Bad Herod dares not come;
  Before thee sleeping, holy thing,
      The wild winds would be dumb."

  "I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet,
      My child, so long desired;
  Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet;
      Thy feet will never be tired."

  "For thou art the king of men, my son;
      Thy crown I see it plain!
  And men shall worship thee, every one,
      And cry, Glory! Amen!"

  Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide—
      At Mary looked her lord.
  Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed;
      Babe Jesus said never a word.