Am I, that very I who laughed in mirth

A while ago, a little, little while,

Yet all the while a-dying since my birth?
Now am I tired, too tired to strive or smile;
I sit alone, my mouth is in the dust:
Look Thou upon me, Lord, for I am vile.
In Thee is all my hope, is all my trust,
On Thee I centre all my self that dies,

And self that dies not with its mortal crust,
But sleeps and wakes, and in the end will rise
With hymns and hallelujahs on its lips,
Thee loving with the love that satisfies.

As once in Thine unutterable eclipse

The sun and moon grew dark for sympathy,
And earth cowered quaking underneath the drips

Of Thy slow Blood priceless exceedingly,

So now a little spare me, and show forth
Some pity, O my God, some pity of me.
If trouble comes not from the south or north,
But meted to us by Thy tender hand,
Let me not in Thine eyes be nothing worth :
Behold me where in agony I stand,

Behold me no man caring for my soul,
And take me to Thee in the far-off land,
Shorten the race and lift me to the goal.

WHY?

LORD, if I love Thee and Thou lovest me,

Why need I any more these toilsome days;
Why should I not run singing up Thy ways
Straight into heaven, to rest myself with Thee?
What need remains of death-pang yet to be,
If all my soul is quickened in Thy praise;

If all my heart loves Thee, what need the amaze,
Struggle and dimness of an agony?—

Bride whom I love, if thou too lovest Me,

Thou needs must choose My Likeness for thy dower :

So wilt thou toil in patience, and abide

Hungering and thirsting for that blessed hour When I My Likeness shall behold in thee,

And thou therein shalt waken satisfied.

“I

"LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH."

HAVE not sought Thee, I have not found Thee,

I have not thirsted for Thee :

And now cold billows of death surround me,

Buffeting billows of death astound me,

Wilt Thou look upon, wilt Thou see
Thy perishing me?"

“Yea, I have sought thee, yea, I have found thee, Yea, I have thirsted for thee,

Yea, long ago with love's bands I bound thee :

Now the Everlasting Arms surround thee,
Through death's darkness I look and see

And clasp thee to Me."

BIRCHINGTON CHURCHYARD.

A LOWLY hill which overlooks a flat,

Half sea, half country side;

A flat-shored sea of low-voiced creeping tide Over a chalky, weedy mat.

A hill of hillocks, flowery and kept green
Round Crosses raised for hope,

With many-tinted sunsets where the slope
Faces the lingering western sheen.

A lowly hope, a height that is but low,
While Time sets solemnly,

While the tide rises of Eternity,

Silent and neither swift nor slow.

ONE SEA-SIDE GRAVE.

UNMINDFUL of the roses,

A

Unmindful of the thorn,

reaper tired reposes

Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!

Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget,

But one remembers yet.