God of the earnest heart,
The trust assured and still,
Thou who our strength forever art, —
We come to do thy will!

Upon that painful road
By saints serenely trod,
Whereon their hallowing influence flowed,
Would we go forth, O God!

'Gainst doubt and shame and fear
In human hearts to strive,
That all may learn to love and bear,
To conquer self, and live;

To draw thy blessing down,
And bring the wronged redress,
And give this glorious world its crown,
The spirit's God-likeness.

VERSES addressed to Dr . W YNSTOK , upon the Author's Recovery from a very severe Nervous Disorder .

I.

Since rosy Health once more displays
Her sprightly gladsome Train,
With renovated Strength the Muse
Attempts this grateful Strain.

II.

But first, to Heav'n's all-ruling Pow'r,
She bends with thankful Heart;
Without who's Aid, of what Avail
Is ev'ry human Art?

III.

Hail W YNSTOK ! tho' no rattling Car

O he was very handsome
When he went to the war—
His eyes would haunt an angel—
They'll haunt the pure no more.
He's sleeping out to-night beside
The old road to the Rhine,
From me who should have been his bride,
My Soldier Libertine.

I hope they shot the brute before
He looked in French girls' eyes;
I like to think that he went pure
From me to Paradise,
Or to the Hell he strove to win
Through women, lies and wine,
And all the girls he led to sin,
My Soldier Libertine.

I hope a bullet set him free

I know a garden where the lilies gleam,
And one who lingers in the sunshine there;
She is than white-stoled lily far more fair,
And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

I know a garret, cold and dark and drear,
And one who toils and toils with tireless pen,
Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary — then
He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.

And ah, it's strange; for, desolate and dim,
Between these two there rolls an ocean wide;
Yet he is in the garden by her side
And she is in the garret there with him.

Addressed to a Lady of singular Ingenuity

Miss
Persuasion on thy Lips is hung,
Heav'nly Eloquence of Tongue;
In what Variety of Charms,
Little Loves with sweet Alarms,
In thy graceful Form appear,
(Prithee Waldgrave come not here)
Pride and Envy must be mute,
If they dare with thee dispute:
No, it cannot, shall not be,
All must yield the Palm to thee:
But should foolish Beauty claim,
Under that bare, simple Name,
Retreat, thou self-sufficient Fair,
To S APPHO how can'st thou compare!
Of mental Pow'rs how just her Boast;

FROM AUSTRALIA

O tell me, God of Battles! O say what is to come!
The King is in his trenches, the millionaire at home;
The Kaiser with his toiling troops, the Czar is at the front.
O tell me, God of Battles! Who bears the battle's brunt?
The Queen knits socks for soldiers, the Empress does the same,
And know no more than peasant girls which nation is to blame.
The wounded live to fight again, or live to slave for bread;
The Slain have graves above the Slain—the Dead are with the Dead.
The widowed young shall wed or not, the widowed old remain—

O the Boar's tail is salted, and the Kangaroo's exalted,
And his right eye is extinguished by a man-o'-warsman's cap;
He is flying round the fences where the Southern Sea commences,
And he's very much excited for a quiet sort of chap.
For his fleet has had a scrap and they've marked it on the map
Where the H.M.A.S. Sydney dropped across a German trap.
So the Kangaroo's a-chasing of his Blessed Self, and racing
From Cape York right round to Leeuwin, from the coast to Nevertire;
And of him need be no more said, save that to the tail aforesaid

Flames through the black smoke shooting — flames to the skies aflame!
Hatred and crime that are nameless, and murder without a name!
The deeds of a death-doomed nation, and the fury of guilt and shame,
And the flames die down in the morning and the black smoke smothers the flame.

Blue smoke from the embers curling, and the morning is fresh and fair;
And the dead and the charred and the mangled, and the wounded are everywhere.
And out on the paths of the fleeing, where the remnants are scattered like chaff,

Hast thou, midst life's empty noises,
Heard the solemn steps of time,
And the low, mysterious voices
Of another clime?
Early hath life's mighty question
Thrilled within thy heart of youth
With a deep and strong beseeching —
What, and where, is Truth?

Not to ease and aimless quiet
Doth the inward answer tend,
But to works of love and duty
As our being's end;
Not to idle dreams and trances,
Folded hands and solemn tone,
But to faith, in daily striving
And performance shown;

Why should a woman, who is fraile and weak,
Into the praises of your vertues break,
Londons great Prelate, whom true vertues lore
Lively proclaims, thee rich within, not poore;
Insuing which true riches, Charles our King
A meet Bird thinks thee in his Church to sing;
Marking the just accounts 'twixt God and thee,

Intrusteth thee with his high Treasury:
Very well maist thou counsell good be giving;
Xenophan like, Philosopher-like living;
O! I confesse, the Muses lend a light,
( Ne, you vail my lux tho: to do you right,)