And angels shall thy feet upbear.'

SPARE me, dread angel of reproof,

And let the sunshine weave to-day
Its gold-threads in the warp and woof
Of life so poor and gray.

Spare me awhile; the flesh is weak.
These lingering feet, that fain would
stray
Among the flowers, shall some day seek
The strait and narrow way.

Take off thy ever-watchful eye,
The awe of thy rebuking frown;
The dullest slave at times must sigh
To fling his burdens down;

To drop his galley's straining oar,
And press, in summer warmth and
calm,

The lap of some enchanted shore
Of blossom and of balm.

Grudge not my life its hour of bloom, My heart its taste of long desire;

66

And blasphemy of prayer.

"Though God be good and free be Heaven,

No force divine can love compel; And, though the song of sins forgiven May sound through lowest hell,

"The sweet persuasion of His voice
Respects thy sanctity of will.
He giveth day: thou hast thy choice
To walk in darkness still;

-n his land. ave is holy by our

gamon,

and shall drop the

ch" Well done!"

th, with smiles thy weet,

be stilled,

f prophecy repeat

f fulfilled.

e at Nazareth speaks

E hath died;

nd Heaven's eternal

fied.

339

Has faith no work, and love no prayer? While sin remains, and souls in dark

ness dwell,

Can heaven itself be heaven, and look unmoved on hell?"

Then through the Gates of Pain, I dream, A wind of heaven blows coolly in; Fainter the awful discords seem,

The smoke of torment grows more thin, Tears quench the burning soil, and thence

Spring sweet, pale flowers of penitence; And through the dreary realm of man's despair,

Star-crowned an angel walks, and lo! God's hope is there!

may be ;

the fiends of ancient

thee free.

OMPASSION.

a of heaven I had, on haunts me oft; white robes clad, their palms aloft; 1 middle song, onance of wrong; h hid faces, from the

eyes, full of remorse

's to a wail, s to low lament; fted veil foreheads bent, the heavenly air, of unselfish prayer; "O Pity which is

fill up my sufferings

1 !

hed by me refuse w in their turn?

7 gift abuse

ich uncencor 2

Its holy lips without a prayer! My God! my God! if thither led By thy free grace unmerited,

No crown nor palm be mine, but let me keep

A heart that still can feel, and eyes that still can weep.

LINES ON A FLY-LEAF.

I NEED not ask thee, for my sake,
To read a book which well may make
Its way by native force of wit
Without my manual sign to it.
Its piquant writer needs from me
No gravely masculine guaranty,
And well might laugh her merriest laugh
At broken spears in her behalf;
Yet, spite of all the critics tell,
I frankly own I like her well.
It may be that she wields a pen
Too sharply nibbed for thin-skinned

men,
That her keen arrows search and try
The armor joints of dignity,
And, though alone for error meant,
Sing through the air irreverent.
I blame her not, the young athlete
Who plants her woman's tiny feet,
And dares the chances of debate
Where bearded men might hesitate,
Who, deeply earnest, seeing well
The ludicrous and laughable,

Mingling in elegvent oxOANA

Her anger and her tenderness,
And, chiding with a half-caress,
Strives, less for her own sex than ours,
With principalities and powers,
And points us upward to the clear
Sunned heights of her new atmosphere.

Heaven mend her faults! I will not pause

To weigh and doubt and peck at flaws,
Or waste my pity when some fool
Provokes her measureless ridicule.
Strong-minded is she? Better so
Than dulness set for sale or show,
A household folly, capped and belled
In fashion's dance of puppets held,
Or poor pretence of womanhood,
Whose formal, flavorless platitude
Is warranted from all offence

Of robust meaning's violence.

bead

Sparkles along the page I read.
Electric words in which I find
The tonic of the northwest wind,
The wisdom which itself allies
To sweet and pure humanities,

nights

Of summer-time, the harmless blaze
Of thunderless heat-lightning plays,
And tree and hill-top resting dim
And doubtful on the sky's vague rim,
Touched by that soft and lambent gleam,
Start sharply outlined from their dream.

Talk not to me of woman's sphere,
Nor point with Scripture texts a sneer,
Nor wrong the manliest saint of all
By doubt, if he were here, that Paul
Would own the heroines who have lent
Grace to truth's stern arbitrament,
Foregone the praise to woman sweet,
And cast their crowns at Duty's feet;
Like her, who by her strong Appeal
Made Fashion weep and Mammon feel,
Who, earliest summoned to withstand
The color-madness of the land,
Counted her life-long losses gain,
And made her own her sisters' pain;
Or her who, in her greenwood shade,
Heard the sharp call that Freedom
made,

Here should the dove of peace be found,

And blessings and not curses given ; Nor strife profane, nor hatred wound,

The mingled loves of earth and heaven.

Thou, who didst soothe with dying breath

The dear one watching by thy croɛs, Forgetful of the pains of death

In sorrow for her mighty loss,

In memory of that tender claim,

O Mother-born, the offering take, And make it worthy of thy name,

And bless it for a mother's sake!

that day Our feet have parted from the path that lay

So fair before us! Rich, from lifelong

search

MIRIAM.

ONE Sabbath day my friend and I
After the meeting, quietly
Passed from the crowded village lanes,
White with dry dust for lack of rains,
And climbed the neighboring slope,

with feet

Slackened and heavy from the heat,
Although the day was wellnigh done,
And the low angle of the sun
Along the naked hillside cast
Our shadows as of giants vast.
We reached, at length, the topmost
swell,

Whence, either way, the green turf fell

In terraces of nature down

To fruit-hung orchards, and the town With white, pretenceless houses, tall Church-steeples, and, o'ershadowing all, Huge mills whose windows had the

look

Of eager eyes that ill could brook
The Sabbath rest. We traced the track

Of the sea-seeking river back
Glistening for miles above its mouth,
Through the long valley to the south,
And, looking eastward, cool to view,
Stretched the illimitable blue
Of ocean, from its curved coast-line;
Sombred and still, the warm sunshine
Filled with pale gold-dust all the reach
Of slumberous woods from hill to
beach,

Slanted on walls of thronged retreats
From city toil and dusty streets,
On grassy bluff, and dune of sand,
And rocky islands miles from land;
Touched the far-glancing sails, and
showed

White lines of foam where long waves flowed

Dumb in the distance. In the north, Dim through their misty hair, looked forth