THE RAISING OF LAZARUS.

When Lazarus left his charnel cave, And home to Mary's house returned, Was this demanded--if he yearned To hear her weeping by his grave?

"Where wert thou, brother, those four days?"

There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbors met, The streets were filled with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crowned The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!

The rest remaineth unrevealed; He told it not; or something sealed The lips of that Evangelist.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs?

ALFRED TENNYSON.

_From "In Memoriam."_

FAITH.

I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped sh.e.l.l; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy; for from within were heard Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea.

Even such a sh.e.l.l the universe itself Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things; Of ebb and flow, and everduring power; And central peace, subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation. Here you stand, Adore, and worship, when you know it not; Pious beyond the intention of your thought; Devout above the meaning of your will.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

_From "The Excursion."_

MY DOVES.

My little doves have left a nest Upon an Indian tree, Whose leaves fantastic take their rest Or motion from the sea; For, ever there, the sea winds go With sunlit paces to and fro.

The tropic flowers looked up to it, The tropic stars looked down, And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown, And glittering eyes that showed their right To gentle Nature's deep delight.

And G.o.d them taught, at every close Of murmuring waves beyond, And green leaves round to interpose Their choral voices fond, Interpreting that love must be The meaning of the earth and sea.

Fit ministers! Of living loves, Theirs hath the calmest fashion, Their living voice the likest moves To lifeless intonation, The lovely monotone of spring And winds, and such insensate things.

My little doves were ta'en away From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean rolling gray, And tempest-clouded airs.

My little doves,--who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison, In mist and chillness pent, With' sudden upward look they listen For sounds of past content-- For lapse of water, swell of breeze, Or nut fruit falling from the trees.

The stir without the glow of pa.s.sion, The triumph of the mart, The gold and silver as they clash on Man's cold metallic heart-- The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,-- These only sounds are heard instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand What human musings mean, (Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine, Are fastened upwardly to mine!)

Soft falls their chant as on the nest Beneath the sunny zone; For love that stirred it in their breast Has not aweary grown, And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep.

And love that keeps the music, fills With pastoral memories: All echoing from out the hills, All droppings from the skies, All flowings from the wave and wind, Remembered in their chant, I find.

So teach ye me the wisest part, My little doves! to move Along the city ways with heart a.s.sured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown.

'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream-- More hard, in Babel's street!

But if the soulless creatures deem Their music not unmeet For sunless walls--let _us_ begin, Who wear immortal wings within!

To me, fair memories belong Of scenes that used to bless, For no regret, but present song, And lasting thankfulness, And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they.

I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields!

I will have humble thoughts instead Of silent, dewy fields!

My spirit and my G.o.d shall be My seaward hill, my boundless sea.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

QUA CURSUM VENTUS.

As ships becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so,--but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered; Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compa.s.s guides,-- To that, and your own selves, be true.

But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last!

One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare,-- O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there!