COMFORTLESS.

45

Tell those whose hands are folded, in coldness or in

disdain,

That their work is never ended while life and strength

remain.

Saving their own is something; but what can they do for the rest,

Going so fast to destruction, our brightest, and once our best?

Tell them the day is coming, some time, or soon or

late,

When their hands will witness against them, red with their brothers' fate;

Give them a sign, O Father! show them the sin, I

pray,

That they may search in the highways for those who

have gone astray.

M. W. P.

46

WHAT OF THAT?

WHAT OF THAT?

Tired! Well, what of that?

Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease, Fluttering the rose leaves scattered by the breeze? Come, rouse thee! work while it is called to-day! Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way!

Lonely! And what of that?

Some must be lonely! 'tis not given to all
To feel a heart responsive rise and fall,

To blend another life into its own.

Work may be done in loneliness.

Work on!

Dark! Well, and what of that?

Didst fondly dream the sun would never set?
Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet!
Learn thou to walk by faith and not by sight;
Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.

Hard! Well, what of that?

Didst fancy life one summer holiday,

With lessons none to learn, and naught but play?
Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die!
It must be learned! Learn it, then, patiently.

OUR OWN.

No help! Nay, 'tis not so!

47

Though human help be far, thy God is nigh,
Who feeds the ravens, hears His children's cry.
He's near thee, wheresoe'er thy footsteps roam;
And He will guide thee, light thee, help thee home.

OUR OWN.

If I had known in the morning

How wearily all the day

The words unkind would trouble my mind

That I said when you went away,

I had been more careful, darling,

Nor given you needless pain;

But we vex our own with look and tone
We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it well might be that never for me The pain of the heart should cease!

How many go forth at morning

Who never come home at night!

And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken That sorrow can ne'er set right.

48

TINY TOKENS.

We have careful thought for the stranger,
And smiles for the sometime guest;
But oft for our own the bitter tone,

Though we love our own the best.
Ah! lips with the curve impatient,

Ah! brow with the shade of scorn,
'Twere a cruel fate were the night too late
To undo the work of morn.

TINY TOKENS.

THE murmur of a waterfall

A mile away,

The rustle when a robin lights

Upon a spray,

The lapping of a lowland stream
On dipping boughs,

The sound of grazing from a herd
Of gentle cows,

The echo from a wooded hill

Of cuckoo's call,

The quiver through the meadow grass
At evening fall;

Too subtle are these harmonies

For pen and rule,

Such music is not understood

By any school;

TINY TOKENS.

49

But when the brain is overwrought
It hath a spell,

Beyond all human skill and power,
To make it well.

The memory of a kindly word
For long gone by,

The fragrance of a fading flower
Sent lovingly,

The gleaming of a sudden smile
Or sudden tear,

The warmer pressure of the hand,

The tone of cheer,

The hush that means, "I cannot speak
But I have heard!"

The note that only bears a verse
From God's own word:

Such tiny things we hardly count
As ministry;

The givers deeming they have shown
Scant sympathy;

But when the heart is overwrought,
Oh, who can tell

The power of such tiny things

To make it well!

FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.