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 DOBELL COLLECTIO; 
 
STRAY LEAVES 
 
 C. E. M. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 Printed for Private Circulation. 
 

 205449 
 '13 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 To Mary j with a few " Stray Leaves " 
 
 His and Mine 
 
 Night and Day .... 
 
 Light in Shadow 
 
 Counsels . 
 
 The Promised Presence 
 
 a It is the Lord!" 
 
 Confession . . . 
 
 One of Many . 
 
 Rotha at Prayer 
 
 In Babylon . . . . 
 
 A Morning Hymn 
 
 Sir Harry Vane .... 
 
 The Tricolor in Naples 
 
 Josepli Mazzini . 
 
 The Squirrel and the Nightingale . 
 
 Eve at the Fountain 
 
 A)i Occasional Hymn 
 
 i 
 3 
 5 
 7 
 9 
 ii 
 
 17 
 19 
 26 
 29 
 3i 
 33 
 39 
 48 
 
 5 1 
 
 52 
 53 
 
TO MARY. 
 
 WITH A FEW "STRAY LEAVES. 
 
 Stray leaves of early Spring, 
 By other leaves and fruit of Summer shaded, 
 Too early in their first fair blossoming, 
 
 Now almost faded. 
 I scarce might offer these poor leaves to thee, 
 Did not thine eyes their earlier beauty see. 
 
 Stray leaves of later bloom, 
 When life's long Summer day hath told its story, 
 And Autumn comes, with less of sweet perfume, 
 
 But mellower glory. 
 I scarce to thee these russet leaves may give, 
 But that thy dear approval bids them live. 
 
 B 
 
 
TO MARY. 
 
 Stray leaves from distant hills 
 Or dales, where we have often stroll'd together : 
 Olive and Palm, grown near Italian rills, 
 
 Or spines of Heather. 
 Memorials sweet I could not bring to thee, 
 Had not love's fingers gathered them for me. 
 
 Stray leaves of dainty Fern, 
 Brought at a guess from fairy -haunted regions, 
 Where only eyes like thine could e'er discern 
 
 Mab's pretty legions. 
 How can I bring these leaflets fair to thee, 
 Except thou first interpret them to me ? 
 
 Stray leaves of fragrant Bay, 
 Long years ago from hallowed branches broken ; 
 And leaves of Roses gather'd fresh to-day, 
 
 Love's latest token. 
 Poor though their odour or their beauty be, 
 They had not known life's sunshine but for thee ! 
 
 April 1872. 
 
 r 
 
HIS AND MINE. 
 
 I lift my heart to Thee, 
 
 Saviour Divine, 
 For Thou art all to me, 
 And I am Thine. 
 Is there on earth a closer bond than this — 
 That " My Beloved's mine and I am His " ? 
 
 Thine am I by all ties ; 
 
 But chiefly Thine 
 That through Thy sacrifice 
 Thou, Lord, art mine. 
 By Thine own cords of love, so sweetly wound 
 Around me, I to Thee am closely bound. 
 
 To Thee, Thou Bleeding Lamb, 
 
 I all things owe ; 
 All that I have and am, 
 And all I know. 
 All that I have is now no longer mine, 
 And I am not mine own. — Lord, I am Thine. 
 e ?, 
 
HIS AND MINE. 
 
 How can I, Lord, withhold 
 
 Life's brightest hour 
 From Thee ; or gathered gold, 
 Or any Power ? 
 Why should I keep one precious thing from Thee, 
 When Thou hast giv'n Thine own dear Self for me ? 
 
 I pray Thee, Saviour, keep 
 
 Me in Thy love, 
 Until death's holy sleep 
 Shall me remove 
 To that fair Realm, where, Sin and Sorrow o'er, 
 Thou and Thine own are one for evermore. 
 
 October 1871. 
 
J_ 
 
 NIGHT AND DA Y. 
 
 The Day is Thine,— 
 
 The long bright summer day, 
 From the first dawning light till evening closes. 
 And all its merry birds and blooming roses, 
 And all its golden beauty bid us say 
 
 The Day, O Lord, is Thine. 
 
 And Life's brief Day 
 
 Is also Thine, when we 
 Must work while light doth last for our dear Master. 
 O that our sluggish feet could travel faster, 
 And we with readier service give to Thee 
 
 Our life's fast fleeting day ! 
 
NIGHT AND DA Y. 
 
 The Night is Thine — 
 
 The long dark winter's night, 
 Hushing our birds to sleep, our flowers concealing ; 
 But, by its hosts of glowing stars, revealing, 
 Through the deep sky, Thy glory and Thy might. 
 
 The Night, O Lord, is Thine. 
 
 That darker Night 
 
 Is also Thine, O Lord, 
 When Thou sweet sleep to Thy beloved givest ; 
 For while they needs must die, Thou ever livest, 
 And o'er Thy dear ones keepest watch and ward 
 
 Till darkness ends in Light. 
 
 January 1872. 
 
LIGHT IN SHADOW. 
 
 Where do God's rubies shine, 
 
 With beauty more divine, 
 Than in the darkness of earth's deepest mine ? 
 
 And when is the clear light 
 
 Of all His stars more bright, 
 Than on a dark and frosty winter's night ? 
 So often in our hours of deepest sadness, 
 He fills our darkened hearts with holy gladness. 
 
 When do God's lilies pale, 
 
 More fragrantly exhale, 
 Than when their leaves are trembling in the gale ? 
 
 And when His violet, 
 
 But when its leaves are wet 
 With the large thunder-drops that hang on it ? 
 So often His sweet promise doth supply us 
 With comfort most when stormy troubles try us. 
 
LIGHT IN SHADOW. 
 
 He often dolh dispense 
 
 His choicest influence, 
 Then most when all things else annoy the sense, — 
 
 When from the pallid cheek 
 
 Fades the last lingering streak. 
 When eyes are dim and voice is low and weak; — 
 Then often, in that night of darkest sorrow, 
 He brings bright visions of Heaven's golden morrow 
 
 O may we all be brought 
 
 To love Him as he ought, 
 And serve Him with true act and holy thought : 
 
 That we, in death's dark night, 
 
 May have the deep delight 
 Of His great love, in Whom alone is Light 
 Without one shade, — in Whom there dwelleth ever 
 Unfailing peace, and joy that fadeth never ! 
 
 Re-written January 7, 1872. 
 
COUNSELS. 
 
 Life, and light, and joy are found 
 In the presence of the Lord, — 
 
 Life with richest blessings crown' d, 
 Light from many fountains poured ;— 
 
 Life, and light, and holy joy, 
 
 None can darken or destroy. 
 
 Bring to Him life's brightest hours, 
 He will make them still more bright ; 
 
 Give to Him your noblest powers, 
 He will hallow all your might : 
 
 Come to Him with eager quest, 
 
 You shall hear His high behest. 
 
 All your questions large and deep, 
 All the open thought of youth, 
 
 Bring to Him ; and you shall reap 
 All the harvest of His truth ; — 
 
 You shall find, in that Great Store, 
 
 Largest love and wisest lore. 
 
COUNSELS. 
 
 Then, when comes life's wider sphere, 
 
 And its busier enterprise, 
 You shall find Him ever near ; — 
 
 Looking, with approving eyes, 
 On all honest work and true 
 His dear servants' hands can do. 
 
 And, if care shall dim your eye, 
 And life's shadows come apace, 
 
 You shall find Him ever nigh 
 In the glory of His grace ; — 
 
 Changing sorrow's darkest night 
 
 Into morning clear and bright ! 
 
 Re-written January 26, 1872. 
 
THE PROMISED PRESENCE. 
 
 Where two or three are gathered in Thy Name, 
 There Thou, O Lord, art present ; — them to bless 
 With Thine own gentle power, and mighty love, 
 And large absolving mercy. Where they meet, 
 Or when, or in what form, Thy Holy Word 
 Prescribes no rule ; — enough that as Thy friends 
 They meet for holy service in Thy Name. 
 
 Thousands may gather where some Minster rears 
 
 Its stately towers, observing every form 
 
 Their Church appoints ; — and yet each solemn creed, 
 
 Each grave response, each plea liturgical, 
 
 Though chanted to the organ's pealing note, 
 
 May rise no higher than the gilded roof, 
 
 And fetch no answer of more moment back 
 
 Than its own echo. If Thou art not there, 
 
 Each soul will go unblessed from the place ; 
 
THE PROMISED PRESENCE. 
 
 Its praise unheard, its prayer unrecognised. 
 And all its sin and sorrow unannealed. 
 
 Yet there, or anywhere, if two or three 
 Of Thy true servants gather, Thou, O Lord, 
 Art with them. Thy sweet Presence consecrates 
 The poorest place where lowly-hearted men 
 Meet in Thy Name ; — Rome's stony Catacomb, 
 Or Scotia's Cavern lone, or some poor Room, 
 Like that of Galilee, whose humble floor 
 Was hallowed by Thy footstep in old time. 
 
 Prayer finds a holy Temple anywhere ; — 
 
 And Thy sweet Presence gives the humblest place 
 
 A greater glory than the highest skill 
 
 Of all earth's artists, with all tints of grace 
 
 And forms of beauty, ever furnished. 
 
 O may we ever meet, Lord, in Thy name, 
 
 And have Thy Promised Presence ! — meet to offer 
 
 Our soul's sweet melody to Thee, albeit 
 
 No rare orchestral strain nor organ's note 
 
 Blend with that inward music ; — meet to bring 
 
 Our many sins, our heavy care and grief, 
 
 Before Thy Gracious Footstool ; — meet to speak 
 
 Of Thine inestimable love ; to learn 
 
 Thy Holy Will, — to come so near to Thee 
 
THE PROMISED PRESENCE. 13 
 
 In fervency of soul, in earnestness 
 
 Of purpose, and in all true humbleness, 
 
 That we by faith may see Thy glorious face, 
 
 And have the pressure of Thy friendly hand ; 
 
 And, by Thy grace enabled, realize 
 
 In our poor lives some likeness to Thine own. 
 
 O bless us with Thy holy, earnest love, 
 
 Thy great devotion to the Father's will, 
 
 Thy brave endurance of all enmity, 
 
 Thy hate of sin, Thy pity for the fallen, 
 
 Thy ready hand to succour and restore 
 
 Those whom the Scribe and Pharisee have spurned 
 
 Then ; — If Thou bless us thus, we evermore 
 Will cherish the sweet memory of that hour 
 When we, though few, and poor, and meritless, 
 Yet meeting at Thy bidding, came to know 
 The meaning of that word, " Where two or three 
 Are gathered in My Name, lo, there am I 
 To the world's end and that for evermore ! " 
 
 Re-written March 1872. 
 
"IT IS THE LORD/" 
 
 Morn breaketh ;— O'er the Sea of Galilee 
 
 The light is still uncertain. On the shore 
 There standeth One who looketh patiently 
 
 Towards a group of fishers bending o'er 
 
 Their empty net. They drop that net once more 
 Into the sea. Spending the night in toil, 
 
 They have caught nothing . . . they who heretofore 
 Never cast net in vain. With patient moil 
 They spread their net once more, and yet they take no spoil. 
 
 They do not heed the Stranger on the coast 
 
 Watching their fruitless labour, — (ah, how nigh 
 The Lord may be to those who love Him most, 
 
 And they not know Him !) Sorrow dims the eve. 
 
 And dulls the ear, and clouds each faculty 
 Of holy observation ; even though 
 
 His well-known voice is heard, it passeth by 
 Unrecognised. A solitary " No ! " 
 Is all their sad response. O dull of heart and slow ! 
 
IT IS THE LORD!" 15 
 
 O doubly dull and slow of heart ! He spake 
 A promise to be with them when they met 
 
 Again, beside the Galilean Lake, 
 
 Or anywhere ; and now they are beset 
 
 With doubt and care and grief ! Their eyes are wet 
 
 With faithless tears ! They do not know the Lord ; — 
 But still at His command they drop their net 
 
 Once more into the deep, when lo ! 'tis stored 
 
 With a great shoal of fish at His prevailing word. 
 
 O mighty Word ! No sooner is it spoken, 
 
 Than the deep sea its silver treasure brings ; 
 And marvel more, — each mesh is still unbroken, 
 
 Through all the net, down to its slenderest strings ! 
 
 Each eager fisher marvels while he clings 
 To his huge living burthen, " Who is He 
 
 Who speaks one word, and lo ! these wondrous things 
 Are wrought ; our empty net is filled, and we, 
 Long-wearied watchers, win this treasure from the sea ! " 
 
 Of Power Divine, of Love most manifest, 
 Can earth or heaven one clearer sign afford ? 
 
 So shall he see Him first who loves Him best ; 
 And John be first to cry, " It is the Lord ! " 
 John sees with love's keen eyes ; his sweet reward 
 
 Is to see clearly. Peter's is to feel 
 
 Joy in quick action j — so, without a word, 
 
 He leaps into the waters. — Ere the keel 
 
 Touches the shore, he at the Master's feet doth kneel. 
 
Love sees, Zeal hastens ; but with love as true 
 
 And zeal as fervent, all with joy behold 
 Their gracious Saviour, and will hasten too 
 
 To kiss His feet ; — and yet not lose their hold 
 
 Of all that their great net doth now enfold 
 Of Christ-given treasure. Not till on the shore 
 
 Their freight is landed and its number told, 
 Will they leave working. — They will praise Him more 
 When they have made true record of that wondrous store ! 
 
 So loving eyes may see the Saviour's face 
 
 Sooner than others, (" blessed are those eyes ! "), 
 
 And zealous feet run quick to His embrace, 
 (O blessed feet to win so rich a prize !) — 
 But while we these commend, they too are wise 
 
 Who ply the labouring oar, or hold the net, 
 Or count their converts with a glad surprise ; 
 
 For all were needed, and are needed yet, 
 
 And all from His dear lips sweet commendation get. 
 
 Oh, Church, to-day ! If ; in that morn's grey light, 
 Those dim-eyed fishers recognised the Lord, 
 
 What shall we say, who, with still clearer sight, 
 Behold His glory, — as with conquering word 
 He brings, not fish but nations, to be stored 
 
 Within His mighty net ? What can we say 
 But " Lord, 'tis Thou ! Be evermore adored. 
 
 Whether we look, or run, or work, or pray, 
 
 ' It is the Lord ' ! — Command us, Saviour, every way ! " 
 
 December 1 871. 
 
CONFESSION. 
 
 How truly bless'd are they 
 
 Beyond all measure, 
 Whose sins are cleared away 
 By Thy good pleasure ; 
 Whose heart, and lip, and life are free from guile ; 
 Whose ways are lighted by Thy gracious smile ! 
 
 I longed that joy like this 
 
 Were my possession, 
 But could not gain the bliss 
 Without confession ; — 
 Ah me ! Thy hand upon me heavy lay 
 For many a solemn night and weary day ! 
 
 At length I did address 
 
 Thy love that savest : — 
 I said, " I will confess ; " 
 And Thou forgavest ! 
 Before the prayer my faltering lips did leave, 
 I Thine abounding mercy did receive ! 
 c 
 
CONFESSION. 
 
 At Thy dear cross I found, 
 
 In my contrition, 
 A balm for every wound, — 
 A full remission ; — 
 Counsel Divine and benediction sweet, 
 And love that all my heart's desire did meet. 
 
 Straightway I then did fling 
 
 Aside all sadness, 
 Nor could I cease to sing 
 New songs of gladness. 
 For Thou with Thine own love didst compass me, 
 And I had found my heart's true life in Thee ! 
 
 March 1872. 
 
ONE OF MANY. 
 
 Yes, I will tell once more the wondrous story 
 Of my Lord's gracious love and healing power ; 
 
 How He did set my many sins before me, 
 
 And showed me in one well-remembered hour, 
 
 How worse than others was my wretched case — 
 
 How greater than my sin was His rich grace. 
 
 I was compelled to listen, as He spoke 
 
 Of guilt like mine, for He did gently speak, 
 
 And with such pity, that my proud heart broke, 
 And tears of shame ran down my burning cheek. 
 
 Strange ! that these eyes that had not wept for years 
 
 Should suddenly o'erflow with scalding tears ! 
 
 But not the only weeper in the crowd 
 
 Was I ; — I could not choose but see one other — 
 
 Dysmas the Thief — who wept and sobb'd aloud, 
 
 And wept the more, the more Christ called him brother ;- 
 
 Even the Roman Soldier, standing by, 
 
 Drew his rough hand across his moistening eye. 
 c 2 
 
\ 
 
 ONE OF MANY. 
 
 But if we wept when Jesus spoke, much more 
 When He held forth a friendly hand to each ; — 
 
 I turned my face away, and He forbore 
 
 More argument ; — what need of further speech 
 
 Than this ? — with beating heart and trembling knee 
 
 I heard the solemn mandate — " Follow Me ! " 
 
 " I'll follow Thee," I cried, " through flood and fire ! 
 
 Thou'st given my happy childhood back again ! 
 Thou hast me drawn from out the awful mire ! " — 
 
 I would have spoken further in this strain, 
 Had He not gently said : — " Yes, follow Me, 
 But in thy new-born sorrow, patiently." 
 
 And patiently I followed ; — Yet, I knew 
 That I, however patient, must be brave 
 
 And resolute. So instantly I threw 
 
 My golden frontlet to the greedy wave ;- 
 
 Away there also went my bracelets fair, 
 
 And the rich network of my braided hair. 
 
 And this I also knew, that all this probing 
 
 And searching of my heart with words of fire, 
 Could not be satisfied with such disrobing, 
 . And sudden loathing of my gay attire ; — 
 But that I must, at any scorn or loss, 
 Take up for His dear sake a heavier cross. 
 
OXE OF MANY. 21 
 
 And I took up that cross and followed Him 
 Where'er He went, by sea or mountain side,- 
 
 Whoever faltered — through whatever whim, 
 Or rough necessity, or shame, or pride — 
 
 I followed, closely with His faithful train, 
 
 Till we, at evening, reached the Gate of Nain. 
 
 Awhile I lingered there, for He was bidden 
 To a great banquet in rich Simon's halls ; — 
 
 Simon the Pharisee, whose words had chidden 
 A thousand sinners from his festivals, 
 
 And who had never suffered through his gate 
 
 To pass, one man or woman reprobate. 
 
 Our Holy Master kindly condescended 
 
 To grace the feast, and straightway He did go, 
 
 And not alone, for He was well attended 
 By those who walked with Him to and fro — 
 
 The favoured Twelve. — Even Simon's rigid rule 
 
 Let pass those higher pupils of Christ's school ! 
 
 But where was I ? Shut out ? That could not be 
 How could I live through such severe eclipse ? — 
 
 His first sweet word to me was " Follow Me," 
 And so the last that fell from His dear lips. — 
 
 My heart was breaking with an awful grief, 
 
 And at His feet alone could find relief. 
 
22 ONE OF MANY. 
 
 " I enter must, whoever may oppose," 
 
 I cried, — " Though Simon's self should bar the way ! 
 (For well I knew he must the portal close 
 
 Against my Master, if he bade me stay). — 
 " Unhand me, Guards ! Tis He says ' Follow Me/ 
 For where I am, there shall My servant be. ' " 
 
 ''And I am His true servant — none more true, 
 Since I have worn His livery : — Gentleness 
 
 And grief for sin. — The garb to me is new. 
 But I have flung aside the other dress 
 
 Which once I wore. — Again He beckons me : 
 
 Again I answer, ' Lord, I'll follow Thee !' " 
 
 So I pressed in, through all the eager crowd, 
 Not heeding Simon's angry look, nor all 
 
 The astonished Pharisees, whose voices loud, 
 Of rough reproof on him did instant call :- 
 
 To ask if he did know how vile a guest 
 
 Had come unbidden to his stately feast ? 
 
 But I pushed on ; — My sobbing heart could take 
 No further heed. Low at His feet I fell, 
 
 And o'er those sacred feet my box I brake 
 Of costly alabaster. The sweet smell 
 
 Of my long-treasured spikenard filled the room, 
 
 And rose to Him with my poor heart's perfume. 
 
 
ONE OF MANY. 
 
 23 
 
 I knelt and wept. — My tears were like a river 
 
 That needs must flow. They were not drops of grief, 
 
 But floods of joy that from my heart came ever, 
 Wave upon wave in holy sweet relief ; 
 
 My only thought, " O this indeed is bliss, 
 
 To bathe His feet in such a stream as this ! " 
 
 And then I kissed those feet till my caresses 
 Made Simon and his angry vassals stare ; — 
 
 And as I kissed, down fell the golden tresses 
 Over His feet of my abundant hair ; 
 
 Wherewith I slowly those dear feet did dry ; — 
 
 Ah me ! It was the only towel nigh ! 
 
 Then I heard Simon speak in accents low, 
 
 And the Lord heard him too, and saw his thought, 
 
 " If this man were a Prophet, he would know 
 Who touch'd Him, and regard her as He ought, 
 
 With holy anger, or with just disdain, 
 
 And bid her not come nigh His feet again." 
 
 For Simon did not know, — How could he know 
 The mighty change that o'er my soul had passed ?- 
 
 He judged others by their outward show 
 
 As he himself was judged ; the world had classed 
 
 Me with the very vile, him with the holy ; 
 
 I stood condemned, he was acquitted wholly. 
 
24 
 
 OXE OF ATAXY. 
 
 But this is not Christ's method ; — His keen eye 
 Sees man and man exactly as they are ; — 
 
 To Him the one is bright as rain-cleared sky, 
 The other but a whited sepulchre ; 
 
 And both alike are guilty at His bar, — 
 
 And both by grace alone absolved are. 
 
 These thoughts came afterwards, not then : For I 
 Had then in my poor heart one only thought, 
 
 That it were better at His feet to die, 
 
 Than to go forth alone. My soul was fraught 
 
 With terror, lest away from His dear sight, 
 
 I might draw back again to dreadful night. 
 
 Then for my comfort came the Parable 
 
 Which all now know; Those words then fresh from heaven 
 Of the Two Debtors, and what them befell ; 
 
 And how those love most who are most forgiven. — 
 Then 'twas my joy to hear such words as these — 
 " Thy sins are all forgiven. Go in Peace." 
 
 Yes, "Go in Peace." — The gracious word was spoken. 
 
 " Thy many, many sins are all forgiven," — 
 " Thy faith hath saved thee :" " Grief thy heart hath broken, - 
 
 But thy great grief awakens joy in heaven : — 
 For all the angels with new gladness sing, 
 As I to them another sister bring/' 
 
ONE OF MANY. 25 
 
 So I went forth ; — Out to the silent night, 
 And all God's angels met me one by one ; — 
 
 The cool sweet air, the golden glorious light 
 
 From many thousand stars, and peace that none 
 
 Can know but they who have been much forgiven, 
 
 And hope that draws me daily nearer heaven. 
 
 And ever since that holy, happy night, 
 
 A tranquil gladness hath my soul possessed / 
 
 And in Christ's peace, and with love's eager might, 
 And with unfaltering innocency blessed, 
 
 With my dear sisters everywhere I plead ; — 
 
 Glad if my words could meet one soul's deep need. 
 
 My story now is told in every city, 
 
 For Christ's own heralds trumpet it abroad ; — 
 They say no tale doth more reveal the pity, 
 
 And power, and grace of our all-glorious Lord ; 
 And this is my chief joy, that thus I prove 
 How greatly Christ can save — how largely love ! 
 
 February 1872. 
 
R OTHA A T PRA YER. 
 
 My Rotha worships at no stately Shrine, 
 Nor doth her hand a blazoned Missal hold, 
 
 Before no carved Saint her knees incline, 
 By her no precious Rosary is told, 
 Of consecrated coral wrought with gold ; 
 
 She occupies no penitential nook 
 
 In the dim aisle of some Cathedral old, 
 
 Nor weareth in her face a gloomy look, 
 
 Like that of solemn Saint in mediaeval book. 
 
 She hath no Ave Mary on her lip, 
 
 No name of ancient Martyr in her prayer, 
 In no fair Chalice doth her finger dip, 
 
 As though there dwelt some wondrous virtue there ; 
 
 For she had early learnt that anywhere, 
 And in what form soever, any plea 
 
 Offered by true and reverent worshipper 
 Should, without bar or stint, accepted be, 
 And fetch down blessings large, and beautiful, and free. 
 
ROTHA A T PRA YER. 27 
 
 She kneeleth in her quiet chamber lone, 
 
 Knowing there is for her no holier place 
 Than that, where He who all her thoughts had known 
 
 From earliest childhood had revealed His grace ; 
 
 Reflecting in her bright uplifted face 
 The glory of His own. Her secret prayer 
 
 Is answered openly. All eyes may trace 
 The visible answer in the very air 
 Of all her life and work, at home and everywhere ! 
 
 A quaint old Father once this thought exprest, 
 
 That every separate prayer from saintly lip 
 Is, as it rises, in rare beauty drest 
 
 By hands angelical, that straightway dip 
 
 Its shape in streams immortal, and equip 
 Its new-born life with wings of holy light, 
 
 Which all the Powers of Evil cannot clip ; 
 And that when thus arrayed in garments bright 
 It lives, and living, soars and sings in God's own sight. 
 
 Ah, dear old saint ! This bright conceit of thine 
 Should have turned all the cobwebs in thy cell 
 
 To threads of gold, and made its rough walls shine 
 And gleam with splendour, as the phrases fell 
 Of prayer from thine own lips ! We may not tell 
 
 What lesson underlies thy fiction fair, 
 
 Beyond this truth, which Rotha knows so well, 
 
 That every simple, trustful, reverent prayer 
 
 Rises straightway to Heaven, and gaineth audience there. 
 
2^ 
 
 ROTH A AT PRAYER. 
 
 It is enough for Rotha that she knows 
 
 The truth, that to her Lord, and Him alone, 
 Need she apply for counsel, or disclose 
 
 Her inmost thought, or make her sorrow known. 
 
 Or breathe of other sorrows than her own, 
 In holy intercession. Sure that He 
 
 Would love her though all earthly love were gone, 
 And bless her with availing sympathy, 
 And in all time of need her Guide and Guardian be. 
 
 Then pray on, Rotha ! Morn, and noon, and eve 
 
 Let thy sweet orisons to heaven ascend, 
 That thy young spirit ever may receive 
 
 New love, new grace, and joy that hath no end. 
 
 In accents musical, yet reverend, 
 Join thy sweet praise-notes with the songs that rise 
 
 From lips of angels who on thee attend, 
 And who behold thee with delighted eyes, 
 As one not far removed from their own native skies ! 
 
 Re-written April 1872. 
 
IN BABYLON. 
 
 In Babylon went forth the King's decree, 
 
 That none in prayer on God's great Name might call ;- 
 
 When suddenly, the pleasant melody 
 
 Of praise was also stopt ! — Then one and all 
 
 In Babel, missing the accustomed strain, 
 
 Besought their captives for their songs again. 
 
 ; Alas," the Hebrews said, — "In this strange land 
 The Lord's sweet music may no more be sung 
 By our sad voices ; for your King's command, 
 Hushing our prayer, hath all our harps unstrung ; 
 And now we can but weep. — In voiceless woe 
 We sit and sigh, and holy song forego. 
 
 " Prayer must with all our music interfuse 
 Its breath divine ; — Our songs can never rise 
 From lips that may not pray, or they would lose 
 Their own peculiar beauty : — Saddest sighs 
 Instead of song, must fill our tongues to-day ; 
 We have no heart to sing who may not pray. 
 
So 
 
 IN BABYLON. 
 
 ' But let again be heard the voice of prayer 
 Within your gates ; — Through every stately street 
 Let King, Priest, Soldier, People, all forbear 
 The ribald jest, and Heaven's high praises greet 
 With awe profound ; then shall our holy song 
 Be heard once more your wondering crowds among. 
 
 ' The noblest song that ever yet was sung 
 
 Within old Babel's walls would then resound ; — 
 
 We, from the willows where they long have hung, 
 
 Our harps would bring, and wake their glorious sound ;- 
 
 For those who pray may praise, to them belong, 
 
 In every place and time, the Lord's sweet song." 
 
 January 1872. 
 
A MORNING HYMN. 
 
 Lord, the golden light of morning, 
 Chasing every cloud away, 
 Fills with beauty each new day. 
 
 Summer's fairest flowers are flinging 
 Fragrant incense on the air, 
 
 And the happy birds are singing 
 Songs of praises everywhere. 
 
 For our earth's complete adorning 
 Love gives beauty, joy, and light 
 How can we that love requite ! 
 
32 A MORNING HYMN 
 
 II. 
 
 We would hear Thy softest warning, 
 We would have Thee for our Guide, 
 Dwelling ever near Thy side. 
 
 In Life's joy, or care, or duty, 
 
 We would keep Thy love in view ; — 
 
 And inspired with Thine own beauty, 
 Gentler be, and bold, and true ! 
 
 Then, when Heaven's unclouded morninj 
 Clothes us with its robes of light, 
 We shall sing Thy praise aright ! 
 
 March 1872. 
 
SIR BARRY VANE. 
 
 " Sir Harry Vane again ! 
 The Lord deliver me from Harry Vane ! " 
 So spake die mighty Cromwell, while his hand 
 Grasped his impatient sword. " This is no time 
 For subtle argument and long debate, 
 But for prompt action. Therefore get you gone, 
 Vane and the rest ! You use a hundred words 
 When ten might better speak the sense you mean ! 
 Come take away that bauble ! Close those doors ! 
 Let Speaker Lenthal quit his sleepy chair, 
 And Lord deliver me from Harry Vane ! " 
 
 Historic words and memorable deed 
 
 As any in our annals, but unwise 
 
 As tyrannous. For Cromwell should have known 
 
 That Vane's clear speech was stronger than his sword, 
 
 For all the nobler purpose and success 
 
 D 
 
34 SIR HARRY VANE. 
 
 Of the great enterprise each loved so well. 
 Alas for the estrangement of brave men, 
 When all are needed and should patiently 
 Bear with each other ! The great qualities 
 Of heart, and brain, and hand are several 
 In men as in God's angels. One is wise 
 To know, another strong to do, a third 
 To love or suffer patiently ; — yet all, 
 Resembling separate stars in spheres remote, 
 In their combined action, each with each, 
 Together, make one perfect firmament, 
 Which, moving in its stately order, fills 
 All heaven with glory, and all earth with light ! 
 
 Ah ! Had that rugged Soldier but delayed 
 
 His strong impetuous action for a while, 
 
 And noted patiently the argument 
 
 Of the great Thinker, heeding more his words 
 
 Than throats of bellowing guns and the quick flash 
 
 Of eager steel, our England had been saved 
 
 The rolling back of the great surging wave 
 
 Of liberal thought, the worse than anarchy 
 
 And ribald licence of the Second Charles, 
 
 And all the poor fruition of our life 
 
 From that age down to this. But Oliver 
 
 Conk] not brook measured phrases from the tongue 
 
SIR HARRY VANE. 35 
 
 Even of an angel in an^ge like his, 
 When England, wrestling for dear liberty 
 And life, demanded — so he thought — not words, 
 But bold and instant action. 
 
 Gentle Vane 
 Should have been living now, when audience fit — 
 Observant, patient, critical, but kind — 
 Would have ascended, step by step, with him 
 To the great height of his fair argument, 
 And from that summit scanned yet further fields 
 Of liberal progress ; but in those rough days 
 The tongue had less persuasive eloquence 
 Than the strong iron hand. So Harry Vane, 
 Discoursing in the fulness of his heart, 
 And with deliberate speech, on Truth and Right, 
 And "Fundamental Principles of Law," 
 Was rudely pushed aside ! 
 
 Yet even then, 
 Among the foremost statesmen of his time, 
 Vane held high place. Not Falkland, nor brave Pym, 
 Eliot, nor Hampden, nor great Oliver, 
 Could show a nobler catalogue of deeds 
 Upon the scroll where the recording hand 
 Writes only what is best. A Man of Thought 
 d 2 
 
SIR HARRY VANE. 
 
 Chiefly and notably, yet norte the less 
 
 A Man of Enterprise, as Boston knew 
 
 In her first settlement, when her small band 
 
 Of sturdy Pilgrims, exiled from our shores, 
 
 Laid there the first foundations deep and broad, 
 
 Under the shelter of his friendly sway, 
 
 Of a New England rising in the West. 
 
 A Man of Action, as the Indian knew, 
 
 Who, straightway yielding to his gentle rule, 
 
 Found, as he yielded, greater liberty, 
 
 And wider fields of action than before. 
 
 A man, in brief, so noticeably strong 
 
 In Government, that England called him back 
 
 To the immediate centre of her life, 
 
 And gave him place and power in Camp and Field, 
 
 And made him " ruler over many things," 
 
 Who had been so far faithful. 
 
 To his charge, 
 Above the rest of her brave sons, she gave 
 The broken remnant of her little Fleet, 
 Half sunk before the Navies of Van Tromp ; 
 When, at his bidding, Blake set sail again, 
 And chased the swaggering Dutchman from her seas 
 Back to his native dykes. To his control 
 She gave the gravest of her embassies ; 
 
SIR HARRY VANE, 37 
 
 And knew him not alone as counsellor, 
 But Leader among Leaders. Ever ready 
 In the front rank of battle in that hour 
 When Freedom wrestled with prerogative 
 And won her victory, and as prompt to pause 
 And face with resolute front the other way, 
 When that same Freedom, almost blind with rage 
 And long misrule, became her own worst foe, 
 And, in Whitehall's dread tragedy, reversed 
 Her own most holy lesson, and threw back 
 Our national life for many a weary year. 
 
 Though wholly innocent of any share 
 
 In that harsh action of his great compeers, 
 
 Vane had to bear the brunt and rough resurge 
 
 Of tyranny restored. There was for him 
 
 No righteous judgment at the bar of men, 
 
 Who, fierce as bloodhounds loosen'd from the leash, 
 
 And charged to fetch their noble quarry down, 
 
 Were bent on slaughter ! Little did they heed 
 
 The glowing protest of his guiltless cheek, 
 
 His strong disclaiming speech, and bold appeal 
 
 From them to after ages and to God. 
 
 They quickly sealed his doom. On Tower Hill, 
 
 Where many a Patriot, honest as himself, 
 
 Had borne his glorious witness for the truth, 
 
 
38 SIR HARRY VANE. 
 
 With holiest courage filling full his soul, 
 He laid his head beneath the gleaming axe, 
 Leaving the legacy of a spotless name 
 To the dear England he had loved so well. 
 
 If blood of Martyrs is the Church's seed, 
 Then is the blood of Patriots also stored 
 With after harvests of another grain, 
 Scarcely less precious. Holy angels gather, 
 With reverent hands, full many a golden sheaf 
 From fields thus watered, and when comes the day 
 Of winnowing, when all the hollow chaff 
 And clinging husk of lies is blown away 
 By the strong breath of God, and only wheat 
 Remains in His great hand, it shall be known 
 How those among the rest are safely there 
 Whose hearts were touch'd with patriotic fire, 
 Because first filled with holiest love of Him ! 
 
 April 1872. 
 
THE TRICOLOR IN NAPLES. 
 
 May 1859. 
 
 " Red for the patriot's blood, 
 
 Green for the martyr's crown, 
 White for the dew and the rime, 
 
 When the morning: of God comes down." 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 The dawning light 
 Filled with a liquid glory all the air, 
 
 And all the stars retired, 
 
 A great host suddenly ; 
 The others slowly, one by one, 
 As though unwilling to withdraw 
 Their light from the dear face 
 
 Of sleeping Italy. 
 
 O blessed stars, 
 That keep their nightly watch 
 In shining multitudes 
 Over so fair a land, 
 And vanish only when the morning light 
 Falls on the enamelled fields 
 And the encircling sea 
 Which leaps exultingly to meet the dawn 
 
4 o THE TRICOLOR IN NAPLES. 
 
 I clapt my hands 
 With wonder and delight, 
 For I had dreamed of heaven, and thought I saw 
 The glorious Vision linger on the earth, 
 Heard angels' music coming from the breasts 
 Of happy nightingales ; 
 And there inhaled 
 The fragrant incense of the skies, 
 Re- breathed from groves of blossoming orange trees ! 
 
 Awhile I sat entranced, 
 
 Unwilling wholly to exchange 
 
 The vision of my dream 
 For all the beauty patent to my sense, 
 
 And watched 
 The moon dip her fair crescent in the wave, 
 
 And the large orbed sun 
 Tinge with a golden glory all the sea, 
 And touch the distant hills with hues of fire. 
 
 At length I rose 
 And broke the lingering tether of my dream, 
 And wandered forth to breathe 
 The fresher sweetness of the air 
 A mile or two away, 
 Where on the bastioned rocks of Gaeta 
 
 Rolled the impetuous sea, 
 And dashed its foam upon the morning breeze. 
 
Ah, had mine eager eye 
 
 And my delighted ear 
 Dwelt only on what Italy could show 
 
 Of natural light and grace. 
 
 I had affirmed till now 
 It was the very garden of the Lord ! 
 
 But as in Paradise 
 
 The serpent reared his crest, 
 And brought Man from that Garden to his grave, 
 
 So wreathes he still his coil 
 Round every fair embodiment of life, 
 
 And leaves his awful trail 
 Not far 
 From where God's angels in their glory wait. 
 
 I had not wandered far 
 On that delicious morn in early-May, 
 
 Beneath the blue Italian skies, 
 Before I learned afresh the lesson old 
 
 Which every age repeats 
 In phrases varied, but unanimous, 
 
 That often in this world of sin, 
 When heaven is nearest, there is also hell ! 
 
 I dare not say in words what sight I saw 
 There on the loveliest curve of all that coast ; — 
 Nor can I vex my sorrowing memory 
 With any echo of the sigh I heard : 
 
 It is enough to say 
 That eye and ear and heart were overwhelmed 
 
42 THE TRICOLOR IN NAPLES. 
 
 With horror and with shame : 
 With horror, 
 
 That almost within the gates 
 Of the fair Paradise of which I dreamed 
 
 An hour or so ago, 
 Of happy angels walking in the light, 
 There should be demons lurking in the shade ; 
 With shame, 
 
 That in the land where Dante saw 
 His glorious Vision, where great Tasso sang 
 The- Liberation of Jerusalem, 
 And in the very grove where Cicero dwelt 
 
 And grave Aquinas walked, 
 Where resonant chimes of many church bells broke 
 
 The silence every hour, 
 There I should see the awful sight I saw, 
 And tell to others what mine eyes had seen ; 
 And get no more humane response than this 
 To all the eager horror of my tongue : — 
 
 "And is this all? 
 
 Why, sir, if you delay, 
 For every wretch who bids you bind his wound, 
 Your pleasure journey to yon distant point 
 Where Ischia slopes in beauty to the sea, 
 You will not reach Sorrento in a month !" 
 
 " Nor will you win 
 Our practical sympathy 
 
THE TRICOLOR IN NAPLES. 43 
 
 If you aver 'twas but a slight offence 
 
 To lift the Tricolor ! 
 Or, being ever so pronounced a crime, 
 This man has suffered punishment enough, 
 And that, having wrenched the fetter from his wrist, 
 And so far 'scaped — though hurt, and nearly dead — 
 
 We should have pity on him !" 
 
 " You Englishmen, 
 
 Who travel in these parts, 
 Armed with your ' Murray ' new and Bible worn, 
 
 Are all alike. 
 Your insular indignation must have vent, 
 And you will show what pity you may feel 
 For any hungry beggar on the road ! — 
 
 But why should / be asked 
 To bring this wretched felon to my inn, 
 
 And give him meat and wine, 
 
 And wash his bleeding feet ? 
 Good Sir, my house is not a hospital, 
 And if it were, I have no room to-day — 
 And if I had a hundred rooms to spare, 
 I dare not show 
 
 Even a passing sympathy 
 
 For malefactors of this sort, 
 
 Who lift the Tricolor 
 When they had better stay at home 
 
 And mind their business ! 
 No ! let the King 
 
44 THE TRICOLOR IN NAPLES. 
 
 Find him, and take him back to whence he came, 
 And give him prison shelter till he die !" 
 
 I had no time 
 For further argument ; nor could I stay 
 To watch the issue ; for the tidings came 
 Of threatened insurrection far and near. 
 And our old courier, Pazzaglia — 
 Who had not rested day or night 
 For fleas, and beggars, and swift telegram ; — 
 Besought us to be gone. For every hour, 
 He said, brought perils fresh, — his latest news 
 Being simply this : — The grim old King at Naples 
 Lay closer in the agonies of death 
 Than my poor friend the beggar. 
 
 I could not stay another hour ; — 
 For all the coast, 
 From Civita to Naples and beyond, 
 Was bristling with revolt ; and how could we, 
 With our sweet women and our little ones, 
 Pass through the cordon which Pazzaglia drew 
 So quickly in his brain, unless we swept 
 Straight on, and instantly, 
 Without a moment's pause, 
 Through Capua and Caserta, 
 Past the Chiaia to St Lucia, 
 
THE TRICOLOR IN NAPLES. 45 
 
 Beneath the shelter of the friendly guns 
 Of the good ship Centurion riding there, 
 Ready to lift her anchor, in the Bay ? 
 
 The Tricolor?— 
 We asked the question, as we drove along, 
 
 Why should it be a crime 
 
 To blend Red, White, and Green 
 
 In pretty banners on a gala day, 
 Or hang the colours in a bright festoon 
 From house to house along the thronging street ? 
 
 And is that Throne 
 
 Worth any loyal thought 
 That trembles at the waving of a flag, 
 And brands the hand that bears it with a scar 
 Used only for the palms of murderers 
 Who roughly break the Decalogue of God ? 
 
 And then this further question came, 
 Also without reply — 
 
 Why should Italian Rulers hate, 
 Above all other Kings, 
 The White and Green when blended with the Red— 
 The White that stands for Purity, the Green 
 For Hope, the Red for glowing Love — 
 When they with all their people might go forth 
 Successfully against the common foe, 
 They bearing in their own anointed hands 
 The chosen Symbol of the national life, 
 
Leaders and Conquerors 
 In the great march of liberal thought and deed ? 
 
 O how we longed 
 Ourselves that day to bear the Tricolor ! 
 That we might show our English sympathy 
 With the great thought that seethed and surged around. 
 And so we did, 
 
 And somewhat openly, 
 
 For ere the day had closed 
 We walked through Naples bearing in our hands 
 Fresh gathered Roses, white and red, 
 
 Arrayed in emerald Moss, 
 Or red Pomegranate mixed with Orange blooms 
 And chequered with green fronds of feathery Fern ! 
 
 The day 
 Closed as it opened, with a Vision fair. 
 I gazed upon the neighbouring trees, and lo ! 
 On every bough the glorious colours hung : 
 Green leaves, white blossoms, and the ruddy fruit ! 
 And then I looked beyond, and mine eyes saw 
 
 All heaven and earth and sea 
 Unrol the tints and hues symbolical 
 In every cloud and grove and breaking wave ! 
 
 The sunset glory, ere it faded, flung 
 
 Tints of soft crimson on the pale green sky, 
 
 And kept those colours there 
 Until a passing cloud as pure as snow 
 
THE TRICOLOR IN NAPLES. 47 
 
 Drew near and formed the centre of an arch, 
 Whose hues, alternate white and red and green, 
 Won the admiring gaze of every eye ! 
 
 The white cloud in turn, 
 Floating not far from old Vesuvius, 
 Lingered beside the bright cascade of fire 
 Which rolled for many a mile 
 Through the great gardens of the blossoming Vine, 
 And looked like a huge banner dropt from heaven, 
 Whose folds swept toward the sea. The sea in turn 
 Took up its part in the great Vision, 
 And broke, not silently, 
 But with a glorious roar 
 Of music from a hundred vaulted caves, 
 And rolled its green waves on the rocks 
 Still crimsoned by the sun, 
 And bounded in its glee as the white foam 
 Of every crested wave 
 Broke brightly on the shore. 
 
 As eagerly 
 
 As those impetuous waves 
 Leaped on the beach, so Garibaldi's men 
 
 Sprang shortly afterwards, and found 
 The Tricolor in all Italian hands, 
 
 And all those colours symbolize — 
 Fair purity, fresh hope, and glowing love- 
 in every brave and true Italian heart ! 
 
 April 1872. 
 
JOSEPH MAZZINL 
 
 In London's busy streets the exile dwelt 
 For years, in solitude among his books. 
 
 Only a few knew what his great heart felt, 
 
 Though many might have gathered from his look 
 
 If not his speech. — His was a soul apart 
 
 From common thought or work of school or mart. 
 
 Yet we knew well, how some of high degree 
 In the fair realm of sweet and liberal thought, 
 
 Loved the Italian, and in sympathy 
 
 Of holy purpose their true friendship brought ; 
 
 And gathered round him, as with glowing pen 
 
 He made his brave appeal to all true men. 
 
 And we knew how, with patriotic pity, 
 
 He brought his young compatriots to his school, 
 
 And taught them to think less of that fair City, 
 Or this dear Province, than of the Great Rule 
 
 And Truth of God, which one day should unite 
 
 All Italy, and make her Future bright. 
 
JOSEPH MAZZINI. 49 
 
 We knew his worth and work while others chided, 
 It was our joy to cheer his patient toil : 
 
 But many critics doubted or derided, 
 
 And said, " This dreamer wastes his midnight oil ;- 
 
 Historian, scholar, poet though he be, 
 
 He cannot save divided Italy." 
 
 " While Austria's Eagle rends, with bloody beak, 
 Its quivering prey ; and other Eagles wait 
 
 On the same quarry — readier still to wreak 
 Their cruel wrath, — poor Italy's sad fate 
 
 Is to be passive. Nothing can withstand 
 
 The spoiler's power, or save this beauteous land." 
 
 " O, Land of Dante's Vision brave and clear ! 
 
 Home of all noble Art and rarest Song ! — 
 Thine is the World's great Painter ; Thine the Seer ; 
 
 To thee all gentle gifts and grace belong ; 
 But not the strong compacted unity — 
 The bold emprise and purpose of the Free." 
 
 So wrote the Critics : but the Patriot's pen 
 Delayed not to send forth its burning words ; 
 
 Till in due time a few brave-hearted men 
 
 Responded, and unsheathed their eager swords, — 
 
 Men in whose souls those words infused new might, 
 
 Teaching them how to love and when to fight. 
 
 E 
 
50 JOSEPH MAZZINI. 
 
 To love not Naples chiefly, nor dear Rome, 
 Nor fairest Florence, nor the marble shore 
 
 Of stately Venice — but one only Home 
 Beneath one circling roof — where evermore, 
 
 From the great Alpine Chain to the broad Sea, 
 
 They and their children's children should be free ! 
 
 All this is done ! — Mazzini's one great mission 
 Is all fulfilled. To him 'twas given to see 
 
 The glorious fabric of his brightest Vision 
 Become Historic Fact, and Italy, 
 
 Trodden to earth for many generations, 
 
 Rise to her place amongst earth's foremost nations. 
 
 Dear Italy ! — whose new career of power 
 Is with the holiest Baptism begun — 
 
 Thine England weeps with thee in this sad hour, 
 When thy sweet earth receives her noblest son. 
 
 Our solace this : — That while his dust remains 
 
 With thine, — Himself in Light Immortal reigns ! 
 
 March 1 7, 1872. 
 
THE SQUIRREL AND THE 
 NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 The Nightingale one happy morn in spring 
 Upon a hawthorn bough was singing brightly, 
 When on a sudden she did cease to sing, 
 And bending to the Squirrel, quite politely 
 Asked him for one sweet nut ; (She did not say 
 She meant the sweeter worm that in it lay !) 
 
 The Squirrel would not grant the Nightingale 
 Her wish, nor for refusing give true reason, 
 But, said her pretty song could not avail, 
 For nuts in early spring were not in season ; — 
 O, naughty Bun ! He knew that in his store 
 He had a hundred nuts, and many more. 
 
 Full fifty notes she gave him in one trill 
 
 Of rarest music, yet he would not bring her 
 
 One single nut, but sat demurely still, 
 
 And said : — " My nuts would spoil the sweetest singer ; 
 
 I would not mar my Nightingale's soft strain 
 
 For all the wealth my nimble toil could gain." 
 
THE SQUIRREL AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Ah, me ! So plausible was Bun's reply, 
 
 It might have gained him credit for politeness, 
 
 Had not an aged Weasel standing by 
 
 Heard the discourse, and with a Weasel's brightness, 
 
 Seeing the plain truth, said : — " You greedy elf, 
 
 You mean to eat your whole great hoard yourself ! " 
 
 The Squirrel's russet cheek grew red with shame, 
 His bushy tail began to swell and tremble, 
 While to his little mind this moral came : — 
 "We are as bad as men if we dissemble ! 
 And we should never selfish craft employ 
 To keep from others what ourselves enjoy." 
 
 " Henceforth I will be frank, and kind, and true ; 
 My sweetest nuts I'll give to every comer ; 
 I'll meditate the next long winter through 
 How I can kinder be the following summer ; — 
 And Men and Weasels, in their sharpest mood, 
 Shall nothing say of me but what is good." 
 
 January 1872. 
 
EVE AT THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Beside a mossy fountain clear and bright 
 Our mother Eve, all beautiful and mild, 
 And in life's morning simple as a child, 
 Reclined to drink ; — when to her great delight 
 She saw beneath the wave a shadow fair, 
 Whose face, half-veiled by rich clustering hair, 
 Looked like an angel's from the Realms of Light. 
 As lower still she stooped, to her surprise 
 The beauteous form drew nearer, its bright eyes 
 Fixed upon hers ! — She rose as quick as thought, 
 And to the fountain's brink her husband brought, 
 And bade him also see the wondrous sight ; — 
 When lo ! — another marvel met her view ; 
 Instead of one bright angel, there were two ! 
 
 Re-written January 1872. 
 
AN OCCASIONAL HYMN 
 
 Lord, Thou hast been, and still wilt be, 
 Our Guide, our Saviour, and our Friend ; 
 
 Our hearts shall ever rest on Thee ; 
 Thou wilt sustain, and Thou defend. 
 
 In pleasant memories of the past 
 We read the record of Thy grace ; 
 
 In roughest ways, with storms o'ercast, 
 We still Thy gentle guidance trace. 
 
 What blessings from Thy varied store 
 To us, Thy children, Lord, have come ! 
 
 Thine hand hath brought us to this hour, 
 And reared for us this tranquil home. 
 
 Here would we celebrate Thy love, 
 Here learn how excellent Thy ways, 
 
 Till in Thy cloudless light above 
 
 We meet to sing Thine endless praise ! 
 
 Re-written April 20th, 1872. 
 
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