The Fool's Prayer

The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

""T is not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long

We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,

Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept— Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say

Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask,

The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders-oh, in shame

Before the

eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The Open Window

My tower was grimly builded,
With many a bolt and bar,

"And here," I thought, "I will keep my life From the bitter world afar."

Dark and chill was the stony floor,
Where never a sunbeam lay,

And the mould crept up on the dreary wall,
With its ghost touch, day by day.

One morn, in my sullen musings,
A flutter and cry I heard;
And close at the rusty casement
There clung a frightened bird.

Then back I flung the shutter

That was never before undone, And I kept till its wings were rested The little weary one.

But in through the open window,
Which I had forgot to close,
There had burst a gush of sunshine
And a summer scent of rose.

For all the while I had burrowed

There in my dingy tower,

Lo! the birds had sung and the leaves had danced From hour to sunny hour.

And such balm and warmth and beauty

Came drifting in since then,

That the window still stands open

And shall never be shut again.

To a Maid Demure

Often when the night is come,
With its quiet group at home,
While they broider, knit, or sew,
Read, or chat in voices low,
Suddenly you lift your eyes
With an earnest look, and wise;
But I cannot read their lore,-
Tell me less, or tell me more.

Like a picture in a book,
Pure and peaceful is your look,
Quietly you walk your ways;
Steadfast duty fills the days.
Neither tears nor fierce delights,
Feverish days nor tossing nights,
Any troublous dreams confess,—
Tell me more, or tell me less.

Swift the weeks are on the wing; Years are brief, and love a thing Blooming, fading, like a flower; Wake and seize the little hour. Give me welcome, or farewell; Quick! I wait! And who can tell What to-morrow may befall,

Love me more, or not at all.

Momentous Words

What spiteful chance steals unawares
Wherever lovers come,

And trips the nimblest brain and scares
The bravest feelings dumb?

We had one minute at the gate,
Before the others came;
To-morrow it would be too late,

And whose would be the blame!

I gazed at her, she glanced at me;
Alas! the time sped by:

"How warm it is to-day!" said she;
"It looks like rain," said I.