THE GARDEN.

My garden was lovely to see, For all things fair, Sweet flowers and blossoms rare, I had planted there.

There were pinks and lilies and stocks, Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue, And clematis white and blue, And pansies and daisies and phlox.

And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady, And all things were ready to greet my lady On the Life's-love-crowning day When she should come To her lover's home, To give herself to me.

I saw the red of the roses-- The royal roses that bloomed for her sake.

"They shall lie," I said, "where my heart's hopes lie: They shall droop on her heart and die."

I dreamed in the orchard-closes: "'Tis here we will walk in the July days, When the paths and the lawn are ablaze; We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss: And thank G.o.d for this".

I leaned where the jasmine white Wreathed all my window round: "Here we will lean, I and my queen, And look out on the broad moonlight.

For there shall be moonlight--bright-- On my wedding-night."

She never saw the flowers That were hers from their first sweet hours.

The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn.

Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose, They were gathered--to honour and sorrow born.

They lay round her, touched her close.

The jasmine stars--white stars, that about our window their faint light shed, Lay round her head.

And the white, white roses lay on her breast, And a long, white lily lay in her hand.

They lie by her--rest with her rest; But I, unhonoured, unblest-- I stand outside, In the ruined garden solitude-- Where she never stood-- On the trim green sod Which she never trod; And the red, red roses grow and blow,-- As if any one cared How they fared!

And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand And see the Angel with flaming sword-- Life's pitiless Lord-- And I know I never may pa.s.s.

Alas! alas!

O Rose! my rose!

I never may reach the place where she grows, A rose in the garden of G.o.d.

PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES.

O G.o.d, let there be rain!

Rain, till this sky of gray That covers us every day Be utterly wept away, Let there be rain, we pray, Till the sky be washed blue again Let there be rain!

O G.o.d, let there be rain, For the sky hangs heavy with pain, And we, who walk upon earth, We find our days not of worth; None blesses the day of our birth, We question of death's day in vain,-- Let there be rain!

O G.o.d, let there be rain Till the full-fed earth complain.

Yea, though it sweep away The seeds sown yesterday And beat down the blossoms of May And ruin the border gay: In storm let this gray noon wane, Let there be rain!

O G.o.d, let there be rain Till the rivers rise a-main!

Though the waters go over us quite And cover us up from the light And whelm us away in the night And the flowers of our life be slain, O G.o.d, let there be rain!

O G.o.d, let there be rain, Out of the gray sky, rain!

To wash the earth and to wash the sky And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh In the gray of a sordid satiety.

Open Thy flood-gates, O G.o.d most High, And some day send us the sun again.

O G.o.d, let there be rain!

A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE.

Squalid street after squalid street, Endless rows of them, each the same, Black dust under your weary feet, Dust upon every face you meet, Dust in their hearts, too,--or so it seems-- Dust in the place of dreams.

Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives, Here men hardly have heard her name.

Work is the end and aim of their lives-- Work, work, work! for their children and wives; Work for a life which, when it is won, Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!

Work--one dark and incessant round In black dull workshops, out of the light; Work that others' ease may abound, Work that delight for them may be found, Work without hope, without pause, without peace, That only in death can cease.

Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, What of these men, at work in the night?

G.o.d will ask you what you have done; Their lives be required of you--every one-- Ye, who were glad and who liked life well, While they did your work--in h.e.l.l!

LONDON'S VOICES

SPEAK TO TWO SOULS--WHO THUS REPLY:

I.

In all my work, in all the children's play, I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear Its never-ending wail, by night and day.

So many millions--is it vain to pray That all may win such peace as I have here, With books, and work, and little children dear?-- That flowers like mine may grow along their way?

Through all my happy life I hear the cry, The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.

I can do nothing--even hope is vain That the bright light of peace and purity In those lost souls may ever shine again!

II.

'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood: "Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.

Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!"

I left the mill, the meadows and the trees, And came to do the little best I could For these, G.o.d's poor; and, oh, my G.o.d, I would I had a thousand lives to give for these!

What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong?

Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay?

The foe is mighty, and the battle long (And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May), And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong; But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

THE SICK JOURNALIST.