She doubted, once upon a time,

Because it took away her sight, She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright.

This flame which burnt for Italy,

It would not let her haters sleep. They blew at it with angry breath, And only fed its upward leap, And only made it hot and deep.

Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep.

This light is out in Italy,

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself,

Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again!

UNAWARES.

THE wind was whispering to the vines
The secret of the summer night;
The tinted oriel window gleamed
But faintly in the misty light;
Beneath it we together sat
In the sweet stillness of content.

Till from a slow-consenting cloud
Came forth Diana, bright and bold,
And drowned us, ere we were aware,
In a great shower of liquid gold;
And, shyly lifting up my eyes,
I made acquaintance with your face.

And sudden something in me stirred,
And moved me to impulsive speech,
With little flutterings between,
And little pauses to beseech,
From your sweet graciousness of mind,
Indulgence and a kindly ear.

Ah! glad was I as any bird
That softly pipes a timid note,
To hear it taken up and trilled
Out cheerily by a stronger throat,
When, free from discord and constraint,
Your thought responded to my thought.

I had a carven missal once,
With graven scenes of "Christ, his Woe."
One picture in that quaint old book
Will never from my memory go,

20

Though merely in a childish wise I used to search for it betimes.

305

It showed the face of God in man
Abandoned to his watch of pain,
And given of his own good-will
To every weaker thing's disdain;
But from the darkness overhead
Two pitying angel eyes looked down.

How often in the bitter night
Have I not fallen on my face,
Too sick and tired of heart to ask
God's pity in my grievous case;
Till the dank deadness of the dark,
Receding, left me, pitiless.

Then have I said: "Ah! Christ the Lord!
God sent his angel unto thee;
But both ye leave me to myself,
Perchance ye do not even see!
Then was it as a mighty stone
Above my sunken heart were rolled.

Now, in the moon's transfiguring light,
I seemed to see you in a dream;
Your listening face was silvered o'er
By one divinely radiant beam;
I leant towards you, and my talk
Was dimly of the haunting past.

love, I fell.

Love brought me down to death, and

death to Hell.

For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

[U. s. A.]

ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
IT chanceth once to every soul,
Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole,
Upon Life's Bridge of Sighs to stand,
A palace and a prison on each hand.
O palace of the rose-heart's hue!
How like a flower the warm light falls
from you!

O prison with the hollow eyes!
Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise.
O palace of the rose-sweet sin!
How safe the heart that does not enter in!

O blessed prison-walls! how true
The freedom of the soul that chooseth
you!

All the rivers run into the sea.
O you little leaping river,
Laugh on beneath your breath!
With a heart as deep as death,

mer sea

Reclined, his head upon a maiden's

knee,

hasting never,

I sit beside the sea.

Here, too, a little child

Stood by the drift, now blackened and defiled;

And with his rosy hands, in earnest play, Scraped the dark crust away.

Checking my hurried pace,

To watch the busy hands and earnest face, I heard him laugh aloud in pure delight, That underneath, 't was white.

Then, through a broken pane,
A woman's voice summoned him in again,
With softened mother-tones, that half
excused

The unclean words she used.

And as I lingered near,

His baby accents fell upon my ear: "See, I can make the snow again for you, All clean and white and new!"

Ah! surely God knows best.

Our sight is short; faith trusts to him the rest.

Sometimes, we know, he gives to human hands

To work out his commands.

Perhaps he holds apart,

By baby fingers, in that mother's heart,
One fair, clean spot that yet may spread
and grow,
Till all be white as snow.

WILLIAM C. GANNETT.

[U. s. A.]

LISTENING FOR GOD.

I HEAR it often in the dark,
I hear it in the light, -
Where is the voice that calls to me
With such a quiet might?
It seems but echo to my thought,
And yet beyond the stars;
It seems a heart-beat in a hush,
And yet the planet jars.

O, may it be that far within
My inmost soul there lies
A spirit-sky, that opens with

Those voices of surprise?
And can it be, by night and day,
That firmament serene
Is just the heaven where God himself,
The Father, dwells unseen?

O God within, so close to me

That every thought is plain, Be judge, be friend, be Father still, And in thy heaven reign! Thy heaven is mine,—my very soul! Thy words are sweet and strong; They fill my inward silences

With music and with song.

They send me challenges to right,
And loud rebuke my ill;
They ring my bells of victory,
They breathe my "Peace, be still!"
They ever seem to say, "My child,
Why seek me so all day?
Now journey inward to thyself,
And listen by the way.'

MARY G. BRAINERD.

[U. s. A.]

GOD KNOWETH.

I KNOW not what shall befall me,
God hangs a mist o'er my eyes,
And so, each step of my onward path,
He makes new scenes to rise,
And every joy he sends me comes
As a sweet and glad surprise.

I see not a step before me,
As I tread on another year;
But the past is still in God's keeping,
The future his mercy shall clear,
And what looks dark in the distance
May brighten as I draw near.

For perhaps the dreaded future

Has less bitter than I think;
The Lord may sweeten the waters
Before I stoop to drink,
Or, if Marah must be Marah,

He will stand beside its brink.

It may be he keeps waiting

Till the coming of my feet Some gift of such rare blessedness, Some joy so strangely sweet, That my lips shall only tremble With the thanks they cannot speak.

O restful, blissful ignorance!

'Tis blessed not to know,
It holds me in those mighty arms
Which will not let me go,
And hushes my soul to rest

On the bosom which loves me so!

So I go on not knowing;

I would not if I might;

As tired of sin as any child
Was ever tired of play,
When evening's hush has folded in
The noises of the day;

When just for very weariness
The little one will creep
Into the arms that have no joy
Like holding him in sleep;

And looking upward to thy face,
So gentle, sweet, and strong,
In all its looks for those who love,
So pitiful of wrong,

I pray thee turn me not away,
For, sinful though I be,
Thou knowest everything I need,
And all my need of thee.

And yet the spirit in my heart

Says, Wherefore should I pray That thou shouldst seek me with thy love, Since thou dost seek alway;

And dost not even wait until I urge my steps to thee; But in the darkness of my life Art coming still to me?

God,

I pray because I must; There is no meaning in my prayer But thankfulness and trust.

I would not have thee otherwise
Than what thou ever art:

Be still thyself, and then I know
We cannot live apart.

But still thy love will beckon me,
And still thy strength will come,
In many ways to bear me up

And bring me to my home.

And thou wilt hear the thought I mean,
And not the words I say;
Wilt hear the thanks among the words
That only seem to pray;

As if thou wert not always good,
As if thy loving care
Could ever miss me in the midst
Of this thy temple fair.

For, if I ever doubted thee,
How could I any more!