THE FISHERS OF MEN. HE boats are out, and the storm is high; The Star of the Sea shines still in the sky, The fishers are weak, and the tide is strong, St. John the Belovèd sails with them too, So with tender trust the boat's brave crew He who sent them fishing is with them still, They have cast their nets again and again, If our feeble prayers seem only in vain, Though the storm is loud, and our voice is drowned By the roar of the wind and sea, We know that more terrible tempests found Their Ruler, O Lord, in Thee! OUR TITLES. TRUST AND REST. FRET not, poor soul: while doubt and fear Disturb thy breast, The pitying angels, who can see Plan not, nor scheme, His choice is best. but calmly wait; While blind and erring is thy sight, What dost thou fear? His wisdom reigns Supreme confessed ; His power is infinite: His love Thy deepest, fondest dreams above: OUR TITLES. ARE we not Nobles? we who trace Our pedigree so high That God for us and for our race Created Earth and Sky, And Light and Air and Time and Space, 125 Are we not Princes? we who stand And answer to no less command Are we not Kings? both night and day, From early until late, About our bed, about our way, A guard of Angels wait; And so we watch and work and pray In more than royal state. Are we not holy? Do not start: It is God's sacred will To call us Temples set apart Are we not more? Our Life shall be Immortal and divine. O God, that we can dare to fail, O God, that we can ever trail A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS. 127 Shall we upon such Titles bring The taint of sin and shame? A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS. DEAR, set the casement open, The evening breezes blow Sweet perfumes from the flowers I can but catch the waving Of chestnut boughs that pass, Their shadow must have covered The sun-dial on the grass. I love best to my room, My failing strength no longer Can bear me where they bloom. You know I used to love them, So I will watch you weaving First, take those crimson roses, Which heals our sin and woe. See in each heart of crimson Next place those tender violets, The cell where they were hidden, – The tears are on them yet. How many souls His loved ones Dwell lonely and apart, Hiding from all but One above Then take that virgin lily, Bear lilies in their hands. |