Jesus, most Merciful of Men, Lord God of Mercy and of men, Show mercy on us then. THOU Who hast borne all burdens, bear our load, Bear Thou our load whatever it may be. Our guilt, our shame, our helpless misery, Bear Thou who only canst, O God, my God. THE POWER OF LOVE. HOW OW can one man, how can all men, Like St. John, or like St. Peter, Like the least of all Blessed Saints? for we are small. Love can make us like St. Peter, Love can make us like St. Paul, Love can make us like the blessed Bosom friend of all, Great St. John, — though we are small. Love which clings and trusts and worships, Love which teaches glad obedience Love makes great the great and small. THE WEARY. A LIFE'S PARALLELS. NEVER on this side of the grave again, On this side of the river, On this side of the garner of the grain, Ever while time flows on and on and on, Ever while corn bows heavy-headed, wan, Never despairing, often fainting, ruing, THE WEARY. THROUGH burden and heat of the day That labor with scarcely a stay, Through burden and heat! Tired toiler whose sleep shall be sweet, Cool shadows grow lengthening and gray, ΙΟ 145 OUR DEAD. WHO would wish back the Saints upon our rough, Wearisome road? Wish back a breathless soul Just at the goal? My soul, praise God For all dear souls which have enough. I would not fetch one back to hope with me To taste the cup that slips Hath he not heard And seen what was to see and hear. How could I stand to answer the rebuke, If one should say: "O friend of little faith, Good was my death, And good my day Of rest, and good the sleep I took"? ONE step more, and the race is ended, MAIDEN MAY. 147 MAIDEN MAY. MAIDEN MAY sat in her bower, In her blush-rose bower in flower, Sat and dreamed away an hour, "Why should rose blossoms be born, Tender blossoms, on a thorn Though so sweet? Never a thorn besets the corn Scentless in its strength complete. "Why are roses all so frail, At the mercy of the gale, Of a breath? Yet so sweet and perfect pale, Still so sweet in life and death." Maiden May sat in her bower, Made one bristling branch the tower 66 Gay and clear the linnet trills; Yet the skylark only, thrills Heaven and earth When he breasts the height, and fills Height and depth with song and mirth. Nightingales which yield to night, Solitary strange delight, Reign alone: But the lark for all his height "While he sings, a hundred sing; Wing their flight below his wing Yet in flight; Each a lovely joyful thing To the measure of its delight. "Why then should a lark be reckoned One alone, without a second Near his throne? He in skyward flight unslackened, Maiden May sat in her bower; Half in sunshine, half in shower, In the year's most tender time. Her own thoughts in silent song Wise, unwise, Wistful, wondering, weak or strong; As brook shallows sink or rise. |