Yet, like music rich and olden

Hiding golden

Words, that sweet voice hideth Christ From the hearts that wait, and weep Him.

In another morning silence,

When a greyer fog falls dreary

And we weary

With the sea's beat evermore,

Cometh One, and pale and wounded,
Mist-surrounded,

Looketh from another shore
In another morning silence.

Other waters cold and misty

On the wet sands grandly singing,
Bear a swinging

Little bark call'd Life by men ;
While the bark is swinging slowly,
That most Holy

Watcher looks: light silvers then On the waters cold and misty.

Hearts are waiting, eyes are weeping,
Falls a voice, O sweet but broken!

Falls a token

Light bedimm'd with blinding mist. Take us where there are no ocean's Wild commotions;

Where we shall not know, O Christ!

Weary hearts, or tear-wet eyelids.

THE CHAMBER PEACE.

A SUMMER night that blows,

Fragrant with hay and flowers, on copse and lawn— A window muffled round and round with rose, Fronting the flush of dawn.

O pilgrim, well is thee

Till the day break, and till the shadows cease,
Resting the faint heart and the failing knee,
In that sweet chamber, Peace.

The white moon through the trees Sails-but thou singest to a heavenly tune, "Needeth no sun the land my spirit sees, "Neither by night the moon."

Before thine eyes half closing

Like ink-black plumes their tops the willows shake; Through them thou seest a little boat reposing Upon a moonlit lake,

And "O," thou say'st, "my soul

Was like those inky plumes the night winds toss; But now it hangs in one great silver roll

Over a hidden Cross.

Ever on life's wild swell

My heart went drifting, drifting on remote,
But now within the veil 'tis anchor'd well,
Safe as that little boat."

Or if the shower that lingers

In fleecy clouds of moonlight-tissued woof
Falls, and the soft rain with a hundred fingers
Taps on the chamber roof,-

"Christ," the lone pilgrim saith,

"My Saviour, comes this heart's poor love to win; Thy locks are fill'd with dew," he murmureth, 66 Oh that Thou wouldst come in."

So rests the pilgrim ever,

Hearing at solemn intervals a swell,
Music as of a grandly falling river
On Hills Delectable.

So rests he till he knows

The morning redden in the eastern skies,
And fronts the unfolding of heaven's fiery rose,
The beautiful sunrise.

Another chamber yet―

The curtain is of grass, and closely drawn ;
But the pale pilgrim, in its portal set,

Looketh toward the dawn.

Ofttimes red roses lie

On the green curtain of that chamber low,
And blossoms like the deep blue summer sky,
Or like the winter snow.

And when the eves are calmest,

Up in the incense-laden aisles of lime, Some sweet bird meditateth like a psalmist poesy sublime.

His

So lay the pilgrim down

Set thou his feet, and face, and closed eyes, Where they may meet the golden raying crown Of Christ's august sunrise.

So let him rest, unheard

Thy faithless mourning; let thy murmur cease;
Translate the grave into a gentler word,
Call it the "Chamber Peace."

I

A FINE DAY IN HOLY WEEK.

THERE is a rapturous movement, a green growing
Among the hills and valleys once again,

And silent rivers of delight are flowing
Into the hearts of men.

There is a purple weaving on the heather,
Night drops down starry gold upon the furze,
Wild rivers and wild birds sing songs together,
Dead nature breathes and stirs.

Is this the season when our hearts should follow
The Man of Sorrows to the hills of scorn?
Must not our pilgrim grief be scant and hollow
On such a sunny morn?

Will not the silver trumpet of the river
Wind us to gladsomeness against our will?
The subtle eloquence of sunlight shiver
What sadness haunts us still?

If I might choose these notes should all be duller, That silver trump should fail in Passion week; The mountain-crowning sky wear one pale colour, Pale as my Saviour's cheek.