It left the road by school and church, A pencilled shadow, nothing more, That parted from the silver-birch And ended at the farm-house door.

No line or compa.s.s traced its plan; With frequent bends to left or right, In aimless, wayward curves it ran, But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green,-- The broken millstone at the sill,-- Though many a rood might stretch between, The truant child could see them still.

No rocks across the pathway lie,-- No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,-- And yet it winds, we know not why, And turns as if for tree or stone.

Perhaps some lover trod the way With shaking knees and leaping heart,-- And so it often runs astray With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain From some unholy banquet reeled,-- And since, our devious steps maintain His track across the trodden field.

Nay, deem not thus,--no earthborn will Could ever trace a faultless line; Our truest steps are human still,-- To walk unswerving were divine!

Truants from love, we dream of wrath; Oh, rather let us trust the more!

Through all the wanderings of the path, We still can see our Father's door!

IRIS, HER BOOK

I PRAY thee by the soul of her that bore thee, By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee, Deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee!

For Iris had no mother to infold her, Nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder, Telling the twilight thoughts that Nature told her.

She had not learned the mystery of awaking Those chorded keys that soothe a sorrow's aching, Giving the dumb heart voice, that else were breaking.

Yet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the pictured token Why should her fleeting day-dreams fade unspoken, Like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken?

She knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies,-- Walked simply clad, a queen of high romances, And talked strange tongues with angels in her trances.

Twin-souled she seemed, a twofold nature wearing: Sometimes a flashing falcon in her daring, Then a poor mateless dove that droops despairing.

Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her?

What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her?

Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor.

And then all tears and anguish: Queen of Heaven, Sweet Saints, and Thou by mortal sorrows riven, Save me! Oh, save me! Shall I die forgiven?

And then--Ah, G.o.d! But nay, it little matters: Look at the wasted seeds that autumn scatters, The myriad germs that Nature shapes and shatters!

If she had--Well! She longed, and knew not wherefore.

Had the world nothing she might live to care for?

No second self to say her evening prayer for?

She knew the marble shapes that set men dreaming, Yet with her shoulders bare and tresses streaming Showed not unlovely to her simple seeming.

Vain? Let it be so! Nature was her teacher.

What if a lonely and unsistered creature Loved her own harmless gift of pleasing feature,

Saying, unsaddened,--This shall soon be faded, And double-hued the shining tresses braided, And all the sunlight of the morning shaded?

This her poor book is full of saddest follies, Of tearful smiles and laughing melancholies, With summer roses twined and wintry hollies.

In the strange crossing of uncertain chances, Somewhere, beneath some maiden's tear-dimmed glances May fall her little book of dreams and fancies.

Sweet sister! Iris, who shall never name thee, Trembling for fear her open heart may shame thee, Speaks from this vision-haunted page to claim thee.

Spare her, I pray thee! If the maid is sleeping, Peace with her! she has had her hour of weeping.

No more! She leaves her memory in thy keeping.

ROBINSON OF LEYDEN

HE sleeps not here; in hope and prayer His wandering flock had gone before, But he, the shepherd, might not share Their sorrows on the wintry sh.o.r.e.

Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, The pastor spake, and thus he said:--

"Men, brethren, sisters, children dear!

G.o.d calls you hence from over sea; Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee.

"Ye go to bear the saving word To tribes unnamed and sh.o.r.es untrod; Heed well the lessons ye have heard From those old teachers taught of G.o.d.

"Yet think not unto them was lent All light for all the coming days, And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent In making straight the ancient ways;

"The living fountain overflows For every flock, for every lamb, Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam."

He spake; with lingering, long embrace, With tears of love and partings fond, They floated down the creeping Maas, Along the isle of Ysselmond.

They pa.s.sed the frowning towers of Briel, The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand, And grated soon with lifting keel The sullen sh.o.r.es of Fatherland.

No home for these!--too well they knew The mitred king behind the throne;-- The sails were set, the pennons flew, And westward ho! for worlds unknown.

And these were they who gave us birth, The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, Who won for us this virgin earth, And freedom with the soil they gave.

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine,-- In alien earth the exiles lie,-- Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, His words our n.o.blest battle-cry!

Still cry them, and the world shall hear, Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea!

Ye _have_ not built by Haerlem Meer, Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee!

ST. ANTHONY THE REFORMER