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We've known a many sorrows, sweet !
We've wept a many tears,
Our pilgrimage of years.
All closelier did we cling :
Away grim Lords of Murderdom;
Away, O Hate and Strife!
Your feast of human life!
From ills that with them spring,
But, come ye who the truth dare own,
Or work in Love's dear name ; Come all who wear the Martyr's crown
The Mystic's robe of flame! Sweet souls a Christless world doth doom,
Like birds smote blind, to sing !
By JOHN LOCKE.
He had those lonely habitudes of thought
The meekest grace, the very breathing soul
THE NIGHTINGALE'S RETURN.
Extracted from Punch.
Most blessed things come silently, and silently depart; Noiseless steals spring-time on the year, and comfort on
the heart; And still, and light, and gentle, like a dew, the rain must be, To quicken seed in furrow and blossom upon tree.
Nile has its foaming rapids, freshes from mountain snows: But where his stream breeds fruitfulness, serene and calm it
And when he overbrims, to cheer his banks on either side, You scarce can mark, so gradual, the swelling of his tide.
The wings of angels make no stir, as they ply their works of
love ; But by the balm they shed around, we know them that they God spake not in the thunder, nor the mighty rushing blast; His utterance was in the still small voice, that came at last.
So she our sweet Saint Florence, modest, and still, and calm, With no parade of martyr's cross, no pomp of martyr's palm, To the place of plague and famine, foulness, and wounds and
pain, Went out upon her gracious toil, and so returns again.
No shouting crowds about her path, no multitude's hot
breath To feed with wind of vanity the doubtful fires of faith ; Her paths by hands official all unsmooth’d, her aims decried By the Levites who, when need was, pass’d on the other side. When titles, pensions, orders, with random hand are shower'd, 'Tis well that, save with blessings, she still should walk
undower'd. What title like her own sweet name, with the music all its
own ? What order like the halo by her good deeds round her thrown? Like her own bird—all voiceless while the daylight songsters Sweet singer in the darkness when all songs else are still She on that night of suff'ring that chill’d other hearts to
stone, Came with soft step and gentle speech, yet wise and firm of
tone. Think of the prayers for her, that to the praying heart came
back In rain of blessings, seeming still to spring upon her track; The comfort of her graciousness to those whose road to death Was dark and doubtful, till she show'd the light of love and
faith. Then leave her to the quiet she has chosen ; she demands No greeting from our brazen throats and vulgar clapping
hands. Leave her to the still comfort the saints know that have
striven. What are our earthly honours ? Her honours are in heaven.
By R. MONCKTON MILNES.
Memories, feeble to retrace
Sorrows that are sorrows still
Tombs where lonely love repines,
Tho' the doom of swift decay
THE SUN UPON WEIRDLAW HILL.
By SIR WALTER Scott.
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my
feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.
With listless look along the plain
I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.