hall:
With wondrous might and beauty blest;
And whoso met him lance-in-rest
Had need on Christ to call.

Men say this monk with hair so hoar,
And eye where grief hath quenched the flame,
Once loved a maiden fair and pure,
And for she would not wed him swore
He 'd bring her down to Shame.

They say he wooed her long and well;
And splendid spoils both eve and morn
Of song and tourney won, they tell,
He gave her till at last she fell,
Then drave her forth with scorn.

The world was cold; her father's door
Was barred—they thus the tale repeat—
Her name was heard in jousts no more;
And so, one day the river bore
And laid her at his feet.

Her brow was calm, the sunny hair
Lay tangled in the snowy breast,
And from the face all trace of care
And sin was cleansed away, and there
Shone only utter rest.

The old men say that when the wave
That burden brought, then backward fled,
He stooped, no sign nor groan he gave,
As mourners by an open grave;
But fell as one struck dead.

He seemed, when from that swound he woke,
A man already touched by Death,
As when the stalwart forest oak,
Blasted beneath the lightning's stroke
Lives on, yet languisheth.

And ever since he tells his beads,
And sackcloth lieth next his skin,
And nightly his frail body bleeds
With knotted cord that intercedes
With Christ for deadly sin.

For his own soul he hath no care,
By penance purged as if by flame:
Men know that agonized prayer
He prays is for the maiden fair
Whom he brought down to Shame.

And still along the way he goes,
With eyes cast down as in despair,
And shoulders stooped with weight of woes,
And lips from which forever flows
An agonizèd prayer.

THE MESSAGE

An ancient tome came to my hands:
A tale of love in other lands:
Writ by a Master so divine,
The Love seems ever mine and thine.
The volume opened at the place
That sings of sweet Francesca's grace:
How reading of Fair Guinevere
And Launcelot that long gone year,
Her eyes into her lover's fell
And—there was nothing more to tell.
That day they op'ed that book no more:
Thenceforth they read a deeper lore.

Beneath the passage so divine,
Some woman's hand had traced a line,
And reverently upon the spot
Had laid a blue forget-me-not:
A message sent across the years,
Of Lovers' sighs and Lovers' tears:
A messenger left there to tell
They too had loved each other well.
The centuries had glided by
Since Love had heaved that tender sigh;
The tiny spray that spoke her trust,
Had like herself long turned to dust.

I felt a sudden sorrow stir
My heart across the years for her,
Who, reading how Francesca loved,
Had found her heart so deeply moved:
Who, hearing poor Francesca's moan,
Had felt her sorrow as her own.
I hope where e 'er her grave may be,
Forget-me-nots bloom constantly:
That somewhere in yon distant skies
He who is Love hath heard her sighs:
And her hath granted of His Grace,
Ever to see her Lover's face.

THE NEEDLE'S EYE

They bade me come to the House of Prayer,
They said I should find my Saviour there:
I was wicked enough, God wot, at best,
And weary enough to covet rest.

I paused at th' door with a timid knock:
The People within were a silken flock—
By their scowls of pride it was plain to see
Salvation was not for the likes of me.

The Bishop was there in his lace and lawn,
And the cassocked priest,—I saw him yawn,—
The rich and great and virtuous too,
Stood smug and contented each in his pew.

The music was grand,—the service fine,
The sermon was eloquent,—nigh divine.
The subject was, Pride and the Pharisee,
And the Publican, who was just like me.

I smote my breast in an empty pew,
But an usher came and looked me through
And bade me stand beside the door
In the space reserved for the mean and poor.

I left the church in my rags and shame:
In the dark without, One called my name.
"They have turned me out as well," quoth He,
"Take thou my hand and come fare with me.

"We may find the light by a narrow gate,
The way is steep and rough and strait;
But none will look if your clothes be poor,
When you come at last to my Father's door."

I struggled on where 'er He led:
The blood ran down from His hand so red!
The blood ran down from His forehead torn.
"'Tis naught," quoth He, "but the prick of a thorn!"

"You bleed," I cried, for my heart 'gan quail.
"'Tis naught, 'tis naught but the print of a nail."
"You limp in pain and your feet are sore."
"Yea, yea," quoth He, "for the nails they were four."

"You are weary and faint and bent," I cried.
"'Twas a load I bore up a mountain side."
"The way is steep, and I faint." But He:
"It was steeper far upon Calvary."

By this we had come to a narrow door,
I had spied afar. It was locked before;
But now in the presence of my Guide,
The fast-closed postern opened wide.

And forth there streamed a radiance
More bright than is the noon-sun's glance;
And harps and voices greeted Him—
The music of the Seraphim.

I knew His face where the light did fall:
I had spat in it, in Herod's Hall,
I knew those nail-prints now, ah, me!—
I had helped to nail Him to a tree.

I fainting fell before His face,
Imploring pardon of His grace.
He stooped and silencing my moan,
He bore me near to His Father's throne.

He wrapt me close and hid my shame,
And touched my heart with a cleansing flame.
"Rest here," said He, "while I go and try
To widen a little a Needle's Eye."

THE CLOSED DOOR

Lord, is it Thou who knockest at my door?
I made it fast and 't will not open more;
Barred it so tight I scarce can hear Thy knock,
And am too feeble now to turn the lock,
Clogged with my folly and my grievous sin:
Put forth Thy might, O Lord, and burst it in.

CONVENTION

At the Judgment-bar stood spirits three:
A thief, a fool and a man of degree,
To whom spake the Judge in his Majesty.

To the shivering thief: "Thy sins are forgiven,
For that to repent thou hast sometime striven;
There be other penitent thieves in Heaven."

To the fool: "Poor fool, thou art free from sin;
To My light thou, too, mayest enter in,
Where Life and