For ere the sleep that care redeems, My soul such visions had, That never child in childhood's dreams Was more exulting glad.

No white-robed angels floated by On slow, reposing wings; I only saw, with inward eye, Some very common things.

First rose the scarlet pimpernel, With burning purple heart; I saw it, and I knew right well The lesson of its art.

Then came the primrose, childlike flower; It looked me in the face; It bore a message full of power, And confidence, and grace.

And winds arose on uplands wild, And bathed me like a stream; And sheep-bells babbled round the child Who loved them in a dream.

Henceforth my mind was never crossed By thought of vanished gold, But with it came the guardian host Of flowers both meek and bold.

The loss is riches while I live, A joy I would not lose: Choose ever, G.o.d, what Thou wilt give, Not leaving me to choose.

_"What said the flowers in whisper low, To soothe me into rest?"_ I scarce have words--they seemed to grow Right out of G.o.d's own breast.

They said, G.o.d meant the flowers He made, As children see the same; They said the words the lilies said When Jesus looked at them.

And if you want to hear the flowers Speak ancient words, all new, They may, if you, in darksome hours, Ask G.o.d to comfort you.

4.

Our souls, in daylight hours, awake, With visions sometimes teem, Which to the slumbering brain would take The form of wondrous dream.

Thus, once, I saw a level s.p.a.ce, With circling mountains nigh; And round it grouped all forms of grace, A goodly company.

And at one end, with gentle rise, Stood something like a throne; And thither all the radiant eyes, As to a centre, shone.

And on the seat the n.o.blest form Of glory, dim-descried; His glance would quell all pa.s.sion-storm, All doubt, and fear, and pride.

But lo! his eyes far-fixed burn Adown the widening vale; The looks of all obedient turn, And soon those looks are pale.

For, through the shining mult.i.tude, With feeble step and slow, A weary man, in garments rude, All falteringly did go.

His face was white, and still-composed, Like one that had been dead; The eyes, from eyelids half unclosed, A faint, wan splendour shed.

And to his brow a strange wreath clung, And drops of crimson hue; And his rough hands, oh, sadly wrung!

Were pierced through and through.

And not a look he turned aside; His eyes were forward bent; And slow the eyelids opened wide, As towards the throne he went.

At length he reached the mighty throne, And sank upon his knees; And clasped his hands with stifled groan, And spake in words like these:--

"Father, I am come back--Thy will Is sometimes hard to do."

From all the mult.i.tude so still, A sound of weeping grew.

And mournful-glad came down the One, And kneeled, and clasped His child; Sank on His breast the outworn man, And wept until he smiled.

And when their tears had stilled their sighs, And joy their tears had dried, The people saw, with lifted eyes, Them seated side by side.

5.

I lay and dreamed. Three crosses stood Amid the gloomy air.

Two bore two men--one was the Good; The third rose waiting, bare.

A Roman soldier, coming by, Mistook me for the third; I lifted up my asking eye For Jesus' sign or word.

I thought He signed that I should yield, And give the error way.

I held my peace; no word revealed, No gesture uttered _nay._

Against the cross a scaffold stood, Whence easy hands could nail The doomed upon that altar-wood, Whose fire burns slow and pale.

Upon this ledge he lifted me.

I stood all thoughtful there, Waiting until the deadly tree My form for fruit should bear.

Rose up the waves of fear and doubt, Rose up from heart to brain; They shut the world of vision out, And thus they cried amain:

"Ah me! my hands--the hammer's knock-- The nails--the tearing strength!"

My soul replied: "'Tis but a shock, That grows to pain at length."

"Ah me! the awful fight with death; The hours to hang and die; The thirsting gasp for common breath, That pa.s.ses heedless by!"

My soul replied: "A faintness soon Will shroud thee in its fold; The hours will go,--the fearful noon Rise, pa.s.s--and thou art cold.

"And for thy suffering, what to thee Is that? or care of thine?

Thou living branch upon the tree Whose root is the Divine!

"'Tis His to care that thou endure; That pain shall grow or fade; With bleeding hands hang on thy cure, He knows what He hath made."

And still, for all the inward wail, My foot was firmly pressed; For still the fear lest I should fail Was stronger than the rest.

And thus I stood, until the strife The bonds of slumber brake; I felt as I had ruined life, Had fled, and come awake.

Yet I was glad, my heart confessed, The trial went not on; Glad likewise I had stood the test, As far as it had gone.

And yet I fear some recreant thought, Which now I all forget, That painful feeling in me wrought Of failure, lingering yet.

And if the dream had had its scope, I might have fled the field; But yet I thank Thee for the hope, And think I dared not yield.

6.

Methinks I hear, as I lie slowly dying, Indulgent friends say, weeping, "_He was good._"

I fail to speak, a faint denial trying,-- They answer, "_His humility withstood._"

I, knowing better, part with love unspoken; And find the unknown world not all unknown.

The bonds that held me from my centre broken, I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.