G.o.d measures souls by their capacity For entertaining his best Angel, Love.

Who loveth most is nearest kin to G.o.d, Who is all Love, or Nothing.

He who sits And looks out on the palpitating world, And feels his heart swell in him large enough To hold all men within it, he is near His great Creator's standard, though he dwells Outside the pale of churches, and knows not A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line Of Scripture even. What G.o.d wants of us Is that outreaching bigness that ignores All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.

n.o.bLESSE OBLIGE

I hold it the duty of one who is gifted And specially dowered in all men's sight, To know no rest till his life is lifted Fully up to his great gifts' height.

He must mould the man into rare completeness, For gems are set only in gold refined.

He must fashion his thoughts into perfect sweetness.

And cast out folly and pride from his mind.

For he who drinks from a G.o.d's gold fountain Of art or music or rhythmic song Must sift from his soul the chaff of malice, And weed from his heart the roots of wrong.

Great gifts should be worn, like a crown befitting, And not like gems in a beggar's hands!

And the toil must be constant and unremitting Which lifts up the king to the crown's demands.

THROUGH TEARS

An artist toiled over his pictures; He laboured by night and by day, He struggled for glory and honour But the world, it had nothing to say.

His walls were ablaze with the splendours We see in the beautiful skies; But the world beheld only the colours That were made out of chemical dyes.

Time sped. And he lived, loved, and suffered; He pa.s.sed through the valley of grief.

Again he toiled over his canvas, Since in labour alone was relief.

It showed not the splendour of colours Of those of his earlier years; But the world? the world bowed down before it Because it was painted with tears.

A poet was gifted with genius, And he sang, and he sang all the days.

He wrote for the praise of the people, But the people accorded no praise.

Oh! his songs were as blithe as the morning, As sweet as the music of birds; But the world had no homage to offer, Because they were nothing but words.

Time sped. And the poet through sorrow Became like his suffering kind.

Again he toiled over his poems To lighten the grief of his mind.

They were not so flowing and rhythmic As those of his earlier years; But the world? lo! it offered its homage, Because they were written in tears.

So ever the price must be given By those seeking glory in art; So ever the world is repaying The grief-stricken, suffering heart.

The happy must ever be humble; Ambition must wait for the years Ere hoping to win the approval Of a world that looks on through its tears.

WHAT WE NEED

What does our country need? No armies standing With sabres gleaming ready for the fight; Not increased navies, skilful and commanding, To bound the waters with an iron might; Not haughty men with glutted purses trying To purchase souls, and keep the power of place; Not jewelled dolls with one another vying For palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.

But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly, With that rare meekness, born of gentleness; Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy, The women whom all little children bless; Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other, With finest scorn for all things low and mean; Women who hold the names of wife and mother Far n.o.bler than the t.i.tle of a queen.

Oh! these are they who mould the men of story, These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth, Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory Than making some young soul the home of truth; Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin, And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;

Women who do not hold the gift of beauty As some rare treasure to be bought and sold.

But guard it as a precious aid to duty - The outer framing of the inner gold; Women who, low above their cradles bending, Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed, While their pure prayers like incense are ascending THESE are our country's pride, our country's need,

PLEA TO SCIENCE

O Science, reaching backward through the distance, Most earnest child of G.o.d, Exposing all the secrets of existence, With thy divining rod, I bid thee speed up to the heights supernal, Clear thinker, ne'er sufficed; Go seek and bind the laws and truths eternal, But leave me Christ.

Upon the vanity of pious sages Let in the light of day; Break down the superst.i.tions of all ages - Thrust bigotry away; Stride on, and bid all stubborn foes defiance, Let Truth and Reason reign: But I beseech thee, O Immortal Science, Let Christ remain.

What canst thou give to help me bear my crosses, In place of Him, my Lord?

And what to recompense for all my losses, And bring me sweet reward?

THOU couldst not with thy clear, cold eyes of reason, Thou couldst not comfort me Like One who pa.s.sed through that tear-blotted season In sad Gethsemane!

Through all the weary, wearing hour of sorrow, What word that thou hast said Would make me strong to wait for some to-morrow When I should find my dead?

When I am weak, and desolate, and lonely - And p.r.o.ne to follow wrong?

Not thou, O Science--Christ, my Saviour, only Can make me strong.

Thou art so cold, so lofty, and so distant, Though great my need might be, No prayer, however constant and persistent, Could bring thee down to me.

Christ stands so near, to help me through each hour, To guide me day by day O Science, sweeping all before thy power - Leave Christ, I pray!

RESPITE

The mighty conflict, which we call existence, Doth wear upon the body and the soul, Our vital forces wasted in resistance, So much there is to conquer and control.

The rock which meets the billows with defiance, Undaunted and unshaken day by day, In spite of its unyielding self-reliance, Is by the warfare surely worn away.

And there are depths and heights of strong emotions That surge at times within the human breast, More fierce than all the tides of all the oceans Which sweep on ever in divine unrest.

I sometimes think the rock worn with adventures, And sad with thoughts of conflicts yet to be, Must envy the frail reed which no one censures, When, overcome, 'tis swallowed by the sea.

This life is all resistance and repression.