X.

The happy children come to us,
And look up in our faces.
They ask us- Was it thus, and thus,
When we were in their places?—
We cannot speak;-we see anew
The hills we used to live in,

And feel our mother's smile press through
The kisses she is giving.

XI.

Be pitiful, O God!

We pray together at the kirk,
For mercy, mercy, solely.
Hands weary with the evil work,

We lift them to the Holy.

The corpse is calm below our knee,
Its spirit, bright before Thee-

Between them, worse than either, we-
Without the rest of glory!

XII.

Be pitiful, O God!

We leave the communing of men,

The murmur of the passions,
And live alone, to live again
With endless generations.

Are we so brave?-The sea and sky
In silence lift their mirrors,

And, glassed therein, our spirits high

Recoil from their own terrors.

Be pitiful, O God!

XIII.

We sit on hills our childhood wist,
Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding:
The sun strikes through the farthest mit
The city's spire to golden.

The city's golden spire it was,

When hope and health were strongest, But now it is the churchyard grass

We look upon the longest.

Be pitiful, O God?

XIV.

And soon all vision waxeth dull

Men whisper, 'He is dying:' We cry no more 'Be pitiful!'

We have no strength for crying.

No strength, no need. Then, soul of mine, Look up and triumph rather—

Lo, in the depth of God's Divine

The Son adjures the Father,

BE PITIFUL, O GOD!

A PORTRAIT.

'One name is Elizabeth.'-BEN JONSON.

I WILL paint her as I see her.
Ten times have the lilies blown,
Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear,

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encoloured faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,—

Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,
Frank, obedient,-waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all your things,

As young birds, or early wheat,
When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings

Of loud mirth that scorneth measureTaking love for her chief pleasure.

Choosing pleasures, for the rest,
Which come softly-just as she,
When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best,

In a bower of gentle looks-
Watering flowers, or reading books.

And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.

And her smile, it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware
With a halo round the hair.

And if reader read the poem,

He would whisper-You have done a
Consecrated little Una.'

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, 'Tis my angel, with a name!'

VOL II.-. 12

And a stranger, when he sees her
In the street even-smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her,
Soften, sleeken every word,
As if speaking to a bird.

And all fancies yearn to cover

The hard earth whereon she passes,
With the thymy scented grasses.

And all hearts do pray, 'God love her!'—
Ay, and always, in good sooth,

We may all be sure HE DOTH.

CONFESSIONS.

I.

FACE to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her.

God and she and I only, . . there, I sate down to draw her

Soul through the clefts of confession... Speak, I am holding thee fast,

As the angels of resurrection shall do it at the last. 'My cup is blood-red

With my sin,' she said,

'And I pour it out to the bitter lees,

As if the angels of judgment stood over me strong at the last,

Or as thou wert as these!'