In the sweet morning 'neath the new-born day.

But see, the wind now breaks it into waves,

Which, rising from their sleep, each tipped with light, Make that long golden pathway to the sun.

So shall it be with thee. Thy soul now yearns

To rest for ever at the feet of Christ;

But suffering, pain, and toil shall sweep across
Its stillness, and the strife of noisy tongues,
And persecution, cold, and nakedness
Shall break its surface; but each pain shall be
Bright with the love of Christ, and all thy life
Shall be a path to lead men up to Him."

So the priest parted, blessing him, and Justin
Rose from his knees and moved among all men,
And reasoned with them of the love of God
And his dear Christ, and led men up to Him
From false philosophies, until at last

His life set in the crimson of his blood,

And rose in splendour near the throne of God.

EVOLUTION.

THOU stand'st complete in every part,
An individual of thy kind;

But whence thou camʼst and what thou art,
Didst ever ask thee of thy mind?

Thou claim'st a portion of God's earth;
Thou say'st to all men, "This is I;"
Thou hast a date to mark thy birth,
And other date when thou shalt die.

Thy years are in the planets' years;
A space in all that mighty span,
A little space of smiles and tears,
Is writ in shining letters-" Man.”

Thou hear'st the mighty ocean roll,
Thou seest death on every hand;
There loom strange phantoms in thy soul,

And boundless heavens arch the land.

Thy feet are on the sand and clay,

Which once had other growths than these, And in the great world's yesterday,

Heard murmurs of the tropic seas.

Life out of death, death out of life,
In endless cycles rolling on,
And fire-gleams flashing from the strife
Of what will come and what has gone.

A perfect whole, a perfect plan,

Ay, doubtless, in the perfect mind, An onward march since time began, With yet no laggart left behind.

All blended in a wondrous chain,
Each link the fittest for its place;
The stronger made to bear the strain,
The weaker formed to give it grace.

But what art thou and what am I?

What place is ours in all this scheme?

What is it to be born and die?

Are we but phases in a dream,

That earth or some prime mother dreams, Folded away in crimson skies?

Or are we dazzled with the beams

Of light too strong for new-born eyes?

Certes, we are not very much;

We cannot cause ourselves to be ; Not even the limbs by which we touch Are really owned by thee and me.

But they were fashioned years ago,

Ay, centuries; since earth's natal morn, The wondering ages saw them grow,

Till our time came and we were born.

And we are present, future, past—
Shall live again, have lived before,
Like billows on the beaches cast

Of tides that flow for evermore.

And yet thou sayest, "This is I;

I am marked off from all my kind;

I look not to the by-and-by;

I care not for what lies behind."

A being of wondrous make thou artThe point at which infinities

Converge, touch, and for ever part.

Thou canst not unmake what has been,
Nor hold back that which is to come;
We dwell upon the waste between

In the small "now" which is our home.

"Though this be so," thou answerest, "still I feel and know myself to be:

Thy creed would make the perfect will
In God's sight like a stone or tree."

Ah no! for stone and tree are one,
And perfect will bears different fruit

The will is grander than the sun,

The body brother to the brute.

But in the ages thou shalt be

A link from unknown to unknown,

A bridge across a darkling sea,

;

A light on the world's pathway thrown