Short Poems

With each new day, new cares will wait for thee,
Trials and heart-aches; yet do thou not fear,
But take them lovingly, and, weaving them
Into a crown of thorns, wear and let be
For ever on thy head, a diadem,
More royal than gold, the dearest token here
Of that sad voice that whispers, " Follow Me."

Time said to me in scorn,
" I was, ere thou wast born."
" But I," I quick replied,
" Shall be, when thou hast died."

With A C OPY OF P ALGRAVE'S " G OLDEN T REASURY "

With silvery moonlight for a lamp,
And minstrelsy of mountain streams,
This book will fill the lonely camp
With richest harvesting of dreams.

Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig.

The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn,
Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace;
Then quick from the door let the lion be torn,
And an angel expand her white wings in his place.

Into the Infinite
Pass we for ever,
Knowing the Light of Light
Faileth us never.

Alas, my friend, I was afflicted, I cried aloud on thy account to God. How much compassion hast thou for thy servant in this world sent here by thee to be thy subject for the space of a day on this earth!
However that may be, mayst thou so dispose my heart, that it may pass through this place of reckoning, without anger, without injury, and live a good life on earth.
My heart knows how truly I weep for my friend, how truly as it lives on earth it cries aloud for thee, my friend, to God.

Of death and time and silence softly wrought,
Beauty, effacing horror, healing pain,
Lies on the mountain slopes and fills the plain,
Quickens each sense and lulls each questioning thought.
Where broken shaft and empty shrine have caught
Wan glory of sunlight, ruin seems as gain;
And pitiful the little lives, and vain,
That loved, that played, and feasted, sold and bought.

ROSE-FLOWER and flower of grass and flower of flame
Drift to the Beauty whence their beauty came;
Fainter are they, more brief, than this June wind,
Yet for the impalpable grace they leave behind
The years may fashion an immortal name.

He was the pulse beat of true hearts,
The love-light of fond eyes:
When such a man from earth departs,
'T is the survivor dies.

TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN, THE REV. MR. SLEEP, CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON, Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific Qualities.

Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone,
And lies beneath yon humble stone,
Whene'er to Kingswear Church we go,
Holy the sabbath-day to keep
(Indeed 'tis right it should be so),
We never more shall go to sleep.