Jesus, most Merciful of Men,
Show mercy on us then;

Lord God of Mercy and of men,

Show mercy on us then.

THOU Who hast borne all burdens, bear our load, Bear Thou our load whatever it may be.

Our guilt, our shame, our helpless misery, Bear Thou who only canst, O God, my God.

THE POWER OF LOVE.

HOW

OW can one man, how can all men,
How can we be like St. Paul,

Like St. John, or like St. Peter,

Like the least of all

Blessed Saints? for we are small.

Love can make us like St. Peter,

Love can make us like St. Paul,

Love can make us like the blessed

Bosom friend of all,

Great St. John, — though we are small.

Love which clings and trusts and worships,
Love which rises from a fall,

Love which teaches glad obedience
Labors most of all,

Love makes great the great and small.

THE WEARY.

A LIFE'S PARALLELS.

NEVER on this side of the grave again,

On this side of the river,

On this side of the garner of the grain,
Never,

Ever while time flows on and on and on,
That narrow noiseless river,

Ever while corn bows heavy-headed, wan,

Never despairing, often fainting, ruing,
But looking back, ah never!
Faint yet pursuing, faint yet still pursuing
Ever.

THE WEARY.

THROUGH burden and heat of the day
How weary the hands and the feet,

That labor with scarcely a stay,

Through burden and heat!

Tired toiler whose sleep shall be sweet,
Kneel down, it will rest thee to pray:
Then forward, for daylight is fleet.

Cool shadows grow lengthening and gray,
Cool twilight will soon be complete:
What matter this wearisome way
Through burden and heat?

ΙΟ

145

OUR DEAD.

WHO would wish back the Saints upon our rough,

Wearisome road?

Wish back a breathless soul

Just at the goal?

My soul, praise God

For all dear souls which have enough.

I would not fetch one back to hope with me
A hope deferred,

To taste the cup that slips
From thirsting lips :—

Hath he not heard

And seen what was to see and hear.

How could I stand to answer the rebuke,

If one should say:

"O friend of little faith,

Good was my death,

And good my day

Of rest, and good the sleep I took"?

ONE step more, and the race is ended,
One word more, and the lesson's done,
One toil more, and a long rest follows
At set of sun.

MAIDEN MAY.

147

MAIDEN MAY.

MAIDEN MAY sat in her bower,

In her blush-rose bower in flower,
Sweet of scent;

Sat and dreamed away an hour,
Half content, half uncontent.

"Why should rose blossoms be born, Tender blossoms, on a thorn

Though so sweet?

Never a thorn besets the corn

Scentless in its strength complete.

"Why are roses all so frail,

At the mercy of the gale,

Of a breath?

Yet so sweet and perfect pale,

Still so sweet in life and death."

Maiden May sat in her bower,
In her blush-rose bower in flower,
Where a linnet

Made one bristling branch the tower
For her nest and young ones in it.

66

Gay and clear the linnet trills;

Yet the skylark only, thrills

Heaven and earth

When he breasts the height, and fills

Height and depth with song and mirth.

Nightingales which yield to night, Solitary strange delight,

Reign alone:

But the lark for all his height
Fills no solitary throne.

"While he sings, a hundred sing; Wing their flight below his wing Yet in flight;

Each a lovely joyful thing

To the measure of its delight.

"Why then should a lark be reckoned One alone, without a second

Near his throne?

He in skyward flight unslackened,
In his music, not alone."

Maiden May sat in her bower;
Her own face was like a flower
Of the prime,

Half in sunshine, half in shower,

In the year's most tender time.

Her own thoughts in silent song
Musically flowed along,

Wise, unwise,

Wistful, wondering, weak or strong; As brook shallows sink or rise.