"Get thee hence to the cell and the scourge !" The priest in his anger doth urge, "Or the fire of the stake thou shalt prove, "Maintaining with blasphemous tongue "That the mass-book and censer, high swung, "Cannot cast out the demon of Love." Then the Highest stept down from his place, While the depths of his wonderful face The thrill of compassion did move : "Come, hide thee," he cried, "in this breast: "I summon the weary to rest; "With love I exorcise thy love." Etter Clementine Howat RUFUS THE KING. One morn in summer's glory, The huntsman's bugle sounded, The fiery coursers bounded, Till soon, a by-way choosing, His path in forest losing Rode Rufus the King. The darkness gathered o'er him, As on an eagle's wing: Till sudden came a crashing, A steed in fury dashing, And blood the green sward splashing, The morning broke in splendor, And help as true and tender This tale of days departed, This balmy day in Spring; THQU WILT NEVER GROW OLD. Thou wilt never grow old, Nor weary nor sad, in the home of thy birth; My beautiful lily, thy leaves will unfold In a clime that is purer and brighter than earth. O holy and fair, I rejoice thou art there, In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold; Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where Thou wilt never grow old, sweet Never grow old! I am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin Haunting my footsteps wherever I go; Life is a warfare my title to win,— Well will it be if it end not in woe. Pray for me, sweet, I am laden with care; Dark are my garments with mildew and mould; Never grow old! Now, canst thou hear from thy home in the skies, Hide the bright spirit I yet shall behold; Never grow old! Thus wilt thou be when the pilgrim, grown gray, Weeps when the vines from the hearth-stone are riven; Faith shall behold thee, as pure as the day Thou wert torn from the earth and transplanted to Heaven. O, holy and fair, I rejoice thou art there, In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold, Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, Never grow old! THE PASSION-FLOWER. I plucked it in an idle hour And placed it in my book of prayer: "Tis not the only passion-flower That hath been crushed and hidden there; And now through floods of burning tears My withered bloom once more I see, And I lament the long, long years, The wasted years afar from Thee. My flower is emblem of the bright Now pale and dead it meets my view. I have no olive leaf to bring From the wild waste of waters dark; For like the dove, my weary wing Can find no refuge but the ark. Save me from passion's stormy sea: Oh! would some prophet might arise My passion-flower was once a part |