Chapter II

Now he is here, I seem no longer here!
This place of light is not my chamber dim,
It is not he with me, but I with him,
And host, not guest, he breaks the bread of cheer.

I was borne onward at his greeting,--he
Earthward had come, but heavenward I had gone;
Drawing him hither, I was thither drawn,
Scarce welcoming him to hear him welcome me!

I lie upon the bosom of my Lord,
And feel his heart, and time my heart thereby;
The tune so sweet, I have no need to try,
But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord.

A little while I lie upon his heart,
Feasting on love, and loving there to feast,
And then, once more, the shadows are increased
Around me, and I feel my Lord depart.

Again alone, but in a farther place
I sit with darkness, waiting for a sign;
Again I hear the same sweet plea divine,
And suit, outside, of hospitable grace.

This is his guile,--he makes me act the host
To shelter him, and lo! he shelters me;
Asking for alms, he summons me to be
A guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost.

So, on and on, through many an opening door
That gladly opens to the key I bring,
From brightening court to court of Christ, my King,
Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore.

At last I trust these changing scenes will cease;
There is a court, I hear, where he abides;
No door beyond, that further glory hides.--
My host at home, all change is changed to peace.

_William C. Wilkinson._

* * * * *

WEARINESS.

O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside Inn,
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that weak or strong
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned,
Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light
Direct from heaven, their source divine;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,
How lurid looks this soul of mine!

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

* * * * *

TOUJOURS AMOUR.

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,
At what age does love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple Chin!
"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,
"I can't tell you if I try.
'Tis so long I can't remember:
Ask some younger lass than I."

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary Love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!
"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,
"Youth may pass and strength may die;
But of Love I can't foretoken:
Ask some older sage than I!"

_Edmund Clarence Stedman._

* * * * *

THE VOICELESS.

We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them;
Alas for those who never sing,
But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story;
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
O'er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his cordial wine,
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,--
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

* * * * *