id="pgepubid00012">VERSE: RETURNED—“MISSING” (FIVE YEARS AFTER)

Yes, I was sad and anxious,
But now, dear, I am gay;
I know that it is wisest
To put all hope away:-
Thank God that I have done so
And can be calm to-day.

For hope deferred—you know it,
Once made my heart so sick:
Now, I expect no longer;
It is but the old trick
Of hope, that makes me tremble,
And makes my heart beat quick.

All day I sit here calmly;
Not as I did before,
Watching for one whose footstep
Comes never, never more . . .
Hush! was that someone passing,
Who paused beside the door?

For years I hung on chances,
Longing for just one word;
At last I feel it:- silence
Will never more be stirred . . .
Tell me once more that rumour,
You fancied you had heard.

Life has more things to dwell on
Than just one useless pain,
Useless and past for ever;
But noble things remain,
And wait us all: . . . you too, dear,
Do you think hope quite vain?

All others have forgotten,
’Tis right I should forget,
Nor live on a keen longing
Which shadows forth regret: . . .
Are not the letters coming?
The sun is almost set.

Now that my restless legion
Of hopes and fears is fled,
Reading is joy and comfort . . .
. . . This very day I read,
Oh, such a strange returning
Of one whom all thought dead!

Not that I dream or fancy,
You know all that is past;
Earth has no hope to give me,
And yet:- Time flies so fast
That all but the impossible
Might be brought back at last.

VERSE: IN THE WOOD

In the wood where shadows are deepest
From the branches overhead,
Where the wild wood-strawberries cluster
And the softest moss is spread,
I met to-day with a fairy,
And I followed her where she led.

Some magical words she uttered,
I alone could understand,
For the sky grew bluer and brighter;
While there rose on either hand
The cloudy walls of a palace
That was built in Fairy-land.

And I stood in a strange enchantment;
I had known it all before:
In my heart of hearts was the magic
Of days that will come no more,
The manic of joy departed,
That Time can never restore.

That never, ah, never, never,
Never again can be:-
Shall I tell you what powerful fairy
Built up this palace for me?
It was only a little white Violet
I found at the root of a tree.

VERSE: TWO WORLDS

God’s world is bathed in beauty,
God’s world is steeped in light;
It is the self-same glory
That makes the day so bright,
Which thrills the earth with music,
Or hangs the stars in night.

Hid in earth’s mines of silver,
Floating on clouds above,—
Ringing in Autumn’s tempest,
Murmured by every dove;
One thought fills God’s creation—
His own great name of Love!

In God’s world Strength is lovely,
And so is Beauty strong,
And Light—God’s glorious shadow—
To both great gifts belong;
And they all melt into sweetness,
And fill the earth with Song.

Above God’s world bends Heaven,
With day’s kiss pure and bright,
Or folds her still more fondly
In the tender shade of night;
And she casts back Heaven’s sweetness,
In fragrant love and light.

God’s world has one great echo;
Whether calm blue mists are curled,
Or lingering dew-drops quiver,
Or red storms are unfurled;
The same deep love is throbbing
Through the great heart of God’s world.

Man’s world is black and blighted,
Steeped through with self and sin;
And should his feeble purpose
Some feeble good begin,
The work is marred and tainted
By Leprosy within.

Man’s world is bleak and bitter;
Wherever he has trod
He spoils the tender beauty
That blossoms on the sod,
And blasts the loving Heaven
Of the great, good world of God.

There Strength on coward weakness
In cruel might will roll;
Beauty and Joy are cankers
That eat away the soul;
And Love—Oh God, avenge it—
The plague-spot of the whole.

Man’s world is Pain and Terror;
He found it pure and fair,
And wove in nets of sorrow
The golden summer air.
Black, hideous, cold, and dreary,
Man’s curse, not God’s, is there.

And yet God’s world is speaking:
Man will not hear it call;
But listens where the echoes
Of his own discords fall,
Then clamours back to Heaven
That God has done it all.

Oh God, man’s heart is darkened,
He will not understand!
Show him Thy cloud and fire;
And, with Thine own right hand
Then lead him through his desert,
Back to Thy Holy Land!

VERSE: A NEW MOTHER

I was with my lady when she died:
I it was who guided her weak hand
For a blessing on each little head,
Laid her baby by her on the bed,
Heard the words they could not understand.

And I drew them round my knee that night,
Hushed their childish glee, and made them say
They would keep her words with loving tears,
They would not forget her dying fears
Lest the thought of her should fade away.

I, who guessed what her last dread had been,
Made a promise to that still, cold face,
That her children’s hearts, at any cost,
Should be with the mother they had lost,
When a stranger came to take her place.

And I knew so much! for I had lived
With my lady since her childhood: known
What her young and happy days had been,
And the grief no other eyes had seen
I had watched and sorrowed for alone.

Ah! she once had such a happy smile!
I had known how sorely she was tried:
Six short years before, her eyes were bright
As her little blue-eyed May’s that night,
When she stood by her dead mother’s side.

No—I will not say he was unkind;
But she had been used to love and praise.
He was somewhat grave—perhaps, in truth,
Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth,
Into all his stern and serious ways.

She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,
First in pride and honour, as in grace,—
She, whose will had once ruled all around,
Queen and darling of us all—she found
Change indeed in that cold, stately place.

Yet she would not blame him, even to me,
Though she often sat and wept alone;
But she could not hide it near her death,
When she said with her last struggling breath,
“Let my babies still remain my own!”

I it was who drew the sheet aside,
When he saw his dead wife’s face.  That test
Seemed to strike right to his heart.  He said,
In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,
“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”

And he wept—Oh yes, I will be just—
When I brought the children to him there—
Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;
And he soothed them with his fond replies,
Bidding me give double love and care.

Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:
Little Arthur, with his serious air;
May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,
Blushing, and at any word of praise
Shaking out her sunny golden hair.

And the little one of all—poor child!
She had cost that dear and precious life.
Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,
When the baby’s gloomy christening came,
And he called her “Olga—like my wife!”

Save that time, he never spoke of her;
He grew graver, sterner, every day;
And the children felt it, for they dropped
Low their voices, and their laughter stopped
While he stood and watched them at their play.

No, he never named their mother’s name.
But I told them of her: