VERY FAR AWAY.

ONE touch there is of magic white, Surpassing southern mountain's snow, That to far sails the dying light

Lends, where the dark ships onward go Upon the golden highway broad

That leads up to the isles of God.

One touch of light more magic yet,

Of rarer snow 'neath moon or star, Where, with her graceful sails all set, Some happy vessel seen afar,

As if in an enchanted sleep

Steers o'er the tremulous stretching deep.

O ship! O sail! far must ye be

Ere gleams like that upon ye light. O'er golden spaces of the sea,

From mysteries of the lucent night, Such touch comes never to the boat

Wherein across the waves we float.

O gleams more magic and divine,
Life's whitest sail ye still refuse,
And flying on before us shine

Upon some distant bark ye choose. -By night or day, across the spray, That sail is very far away.

THE BIRTHDAY CROWN.

IF aught of simple song have power to touch Your silent being, O ye country flowers, Twisted by tender hands

Into a royal brede,

O hawthorn, tear thou not the soft white brow
Of the small queen upon her rustic throne,
But breathe thy finest scent

Of almond round about.

And thou, laburnum, and what other hue.
Tinct deeper gives variety of gold,
Inwoven lily, and vetch

Bedropp'd with summer's blood,

I charge you wither not this long June day! Oh, wither not until the sunset come,

Until the sunset's shaft

Slope through the chestnut-tree;

Until she sit, high-gloried round about
With the great light above her mimic court-

Her threads of sunny hair

Girt sunnily by you.

What other crown that queen may wear one day, What drops may touch her forehead not of balm, What thorns, what cruel thorns,

I will not guess to-day.

Only, before she is discrowned of you,
Ye dying flowers, and thou, O dying light,
My prayer shall rise-" O Christ!

Give her the unfading crown.

"The crown of blossoms worn by happy bride, The thorny crown o'er pale and dying lips, I dare not choose for her

Give her the unfading crown!"

CHRIST ON THE SHORE.

IN the silence of the morning,
Of the morning grey and clouded,
Mist enshrouded,

On the shore of Galilee,
Like a shape upon a column,
Sad and solemn

Christ is standing by the sea, In the silence of the morning.

On the waters cold and misty,

Like a rock, its dark back lifting
Through the drifting

Vapours, heaves the fisher's boat.
Still through grey-fog hood and mantle
That most gentle

Watcher looketh where they float

On the waters cold and misty.

Hearts are waiting, eyes are weeping,

Comes a voice, a susurration;

Tribulation

Melteth, melteth like the mist;