Has someone seen Christ in you today?
Christian, look at your heart, I pray.
The little things you have done or said —
Did they accord with the way you prayed?
Have your thoughts been pure and words been kind?
Have you sought to have the Saviour's mind?
The world with a criticizing view
Has watched — but did it see Christ in you?

Has someone seen Christ in you today?
Christian, look at your life, I pray;
There are aching hearts and blighted souls
Being lost in sin's destructive shoals.
And perhaps of Christ, their only view

Has not the night been as a drunken rose
Without a witness? And the girl of bloom
Has given up all. What little cries of joy!
What wanton words repeated!
But white dawn shows the rose and green pet bird,
The mighty talker and awake all night.
Hark! The old woman comes; he will tell all.
What shall she, fluttering? Snap small rubies off
From the bright ear-rings, facets sharp as steel;
These with the seed-pulp of the passion-fruit,
His sweet prepared breakfast, mingle featly ...
So, busy jargoner, silent for ever more.

Has any one seen my Fair,
Has any one seen my Dear?
Could any one tell me where
And whither she went from here?

The road is winding and long,
With many a turn and twist,
And one could easy go wrong,
Or ever one thought or list.

How should one know my Fair,
And how should one know my Dear?
By the dazzle of sunlight hair
That smites like a golden spear.

By the eyes that say “Beware,”
By the smile that beckons you near,—
This is to know my Fair,
This is to know my Dear.

Rough and bitter as gall

1. The harvest dawn is near, The year delays not long;
2. Sad to his toil he goes, His seed with weeping leaves;
And he who sows with many a tear, Shall reap with many a song.
But he shall come at twilight's close, And bring his golden sheaves.

Harsh cry the crows
And townward take their whirring flight;
Soon comes the snows —
Happy who has a home this night.

With glances dead
Thou gazest backward as of old!
Why hadst thou fled
Unto the world from winter's cold?

The world — a gate
To freezing deserts dumb and bare!
Who lost what late
Thou lost is homeless everywhere.

Pale one, to bleak
And wintry pilgrimages driven,
Smoke-like to seek
The ever colder heights of heaven.

Soar, bird, fling wide
That song of birds in deserts born!

Harried we were, and spent,
Broken and falling,
Ere as the cranes we went,
Crying and calling.

Summer shall see the bird
Backward returning;
Never shall there be heard
Those, who went yearning.

Emptied of us the land,
Ghostly our going,
Fallen, like spears the hand
Dropped in the throwing.

We are the lost who went
Like the cranes, crying;
Hunted, lonely, and spent,
Broken and dying.

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

Harp of wild and dream-like strain,
When I touch thy strings,
Why dost thou repeat again
Long-forgotten things?

Harp, in other, earlier days,
I could sing to thee;
And not one of all my lays
Vexed my memory.

But now, if I awake a note
That gave me joy before,
Sounds of sorrow from thee float,
Changing evermore.

Yet, still steeped in memory's dyes,
They come sailing on,
Darkening all my summer skies,
Shutting out my sun.

POWER

H AROUN , the Caliph, through the sunlit street
Walked slowly with bent head and weary breath,
And cried, " Alas, I cannot stay my feet,
That move unceasing toward the gate of Death. "

Harlackenden, among these men of note Christ hath thee seated:
In warlike way Christ thee aray, with zeal, and love well heated.
As generall belov'd of all, Christ Souldiers honour thee:
In thy young yeares, courage appeares, and kinde benignity.
Short are thy days, spent to his praise, whose Church work thou must aid,
His work shall bide, silver tride, but thine by death is staid.