Chapter VII (3)

Fates thicken, and prophecies darken,
Grown up into blossom and fruit;
And we lean in these last days to hearken
The sound of Thy foot.
Not now as a star-fallen stranger,
By shepherds, and pilgrims adored,
As couched among kine in a manger,
An undeclared lord:

Not now in waste wilderness places,
And mountains, and wind-shaken seas,
Proclaiming to strange alien races
The gospel of peace;
Who rended'st the prey from the leopard,
With sorrowful wounding and strife,
The Priest--the Lamb slain--the Good Shepherd,
The way and the life.

Not the face that wept over the city
Nor that with its anguish of pain
In the garden, enlightened by pity
Of angels or men;
Nor the suffering form, unreplying.
With the chrysm of death at its lips;
Cross-uplifted, and nail-pierced, and dying
In fateful eclipse:

But with all heaven's glory and splendour
Through the gates of the morning come down,
And with thrones and dominions to render
Him sceptre and crown!
With the Face beyond all men's thinking,
Beholden of all men's eyes;
And the earth in its gladness drinking
The light of the skies.

With the rapture of angels, the singing
Of radiant choirs unknown,
And the shouting of glad hosts bringing
Our King to His throne!
O City of David, the Golden,
That sittest in darkness so long,
No longer in chains thou art holden,
Break forth into song!

Arise, and upbuild thy waste places,
Take helmet and buckler and sword,
And gather from far-scattered races
The tribes of the Lord!
Thy Prince shall ride onward victorious;
Full strong are his arrows and fleet;
And high shall His throne be, and glorious
The place of His feet!

Set thy lips to the trumpet, awaken
The isles of the South and the North,
As the trees of the forest are shaken
When whirlwinds go forth:
Like the waves of the sea, like the thunder
Of armies, with jubilant voice,
A multitude no man can number
Shall sing and rejoice.

The kingdoms beyond the great river,
The uttermost isles of the sea,
And peoples and tribes shall deliver
Thy children to thee.
Once more shall thine ensign, the Lion
Of Judah, be o'er thee unfurled;
Once more shall thy gates be, O Zion,
Set wide to the world!

With hands stretched in mute supplication,
With longing, and weeping, and prayer,
We have waited for this, thy salvation,
In grief--not despair;
Till thy Lord to His temple descended,
Shall comfort thee, sorrowful one,
And the days of thy mourning be ended,
Thy triumph begun.

Till the mountains about thee assemble
Lost lights of the sun-dawn, rose-red,
White splendours, that point as they tremble
The path for His tread:
Through the hate of our foes, and their scorning
And dumb in the darkness we wake,
For the night is far spent--and the morning
In glory shall break.

WITH A BUNCH OF SPRING FLOWERS.

(In an Album.)

In the spring-time, out of the dew,
From my garden, sweet friend, I gather,
A garland of verses, or rather
A poem of blossoms for you.

There are pansies, purple and white,
That hold in their velvet splendour,
Sweet thoughts as fragrant and tender,
And rarer than poets can write.

The Iris her pennon unfurls,
My unspoken message to carry,
A flower-poem writ by a fairy,
And Buttercups rounder than pearls.

And Snowdrops starry and sweet,
Turn toward thee their pale pure faces
And Crocus, and Cowslips, and Daisies
The song of the spring-time repeat.

So merry and full of cheer,
With the warble of birds overflowing,
The wind through the fresh grass blowing
And the blackbirds whistle so dear.

These songs without words are true,
All sung in the April weather--
Music and blossoms together--
I gather and weave them for you.

THE HIGHER LAW.

Love and Obedience--these the Higher Law
From which Thy worlds have swerved not, singing still
Their primal hymn rejoicing, as at first
The morning stars together. Hast thou heard,
In vast and silent spaces of the sky,
What time the bead-roll of the universe
God calls in heaven, every tiniest star--
From myriad twinkling points--from plummet depths
Of dark too vast for eye and sense to guess,
Send up a little silver answer "I am here."
Even so, the humblest of thy little ones, dear Lord,
May through the darkness hear Thy still small voice,
And answer with quick gladness "Here am I,--
I love Thee,--I obey Thee,--use me too!"

MAY.

Thou comest to the year,
And bringest all things beautiful and sweet;
Thy lovely miracles themselves repeat
In the green glory of the grass,
And peeping flowers that stay our lingering feet
With their soft eyes, blue like the sky and clear;
Thou bringest not, alas,
Our lily, our May-blossom, O New Year!

Thou bringest all things fair,
And bright, and gentle, but thou bring'st not her:
The May-birds warble, and May breezes stir
In the sweet-scented lilac boughs;
But our one May--our gentlest minister
Of gladness, with the beauty of her hair.
Her place in our still house
Is empty,--and the world is bleak and bare.

TWO WINDOWS.