And in her spirit a still fountain springs Deeper than hunger, faith crying for life, That to her eyes an inward clearness brings, And to her heart courage for any strife.

DOUGLAS AINSLIE.

LINES PREFIXED TO “ST. JOHN OF DAMASCUS"

"Worshipper of the Sun and Moon

and the Evening Star this people was,
before we brought the priceless boon
and held before its eyes the Cross."

Thus speak the priests of every creed
and the Old God's perish as is due,
and the New triumph, till indeed
these new are old and men make new.
But always as the old creed wanes

her votaries will linger yet,

and though Lord Christ in Heaven reigns,
Queen Venus they will not forget.
See them steal forth at still of eve,
alert while all the world is sleeping;
see the stained altar, see them weave
her mystic wreaths while she is peeping
through the pale cloud. Just so one day
the tale of Christ a tale of Fairy
to the new men will seem when they
to Venus shall have added Mary
among the myths of old: they smile
handling the crown of thorns; for them
the Christian legend will beguile
an idle hour, the azure hem
of Mary's robe, the Cherubim,
the glistening glories of the sainted
are but old fancies growing dim
as fade the marvels Vinci painted.

Thus of the world in man's first youth;

he wanders on until arrested

he stands before the temple Truth built on the hill-top olive-crested.

He kneels, and glowing there between
the white slim columns of her shrine ;
perfect, implacable, serene,

dawns upon him the queen divine.
Then says the world: "An empty shell
for the true goddess you have taken ;
long ages past the old faith fell

and the marble temple was forsaken;
you are a man now and behold

these things are really worth the scheming :
science and power and art and gold
and women fairer than your dreaming."
And as the pagan with the priest,
so manhood spurns his boyhood's god
vowing he cares nor knows the least
where winds the hilly path he trod.
But when the field of youth is mown
and earlier his evening closes,
lo! he steals trembling forth alone
to deck the scornèd shrine with roses,
and weeping in the sacred place,
see him recant his blasphemies :
iron-grey his hair and in his face
engraven the world's miseries.

O Goddess, grant him kneeling here,
pilgrim and penitent of youth,
vision ineffable to appear-
that art religion, love and truth.

Printed by Ballantyne, HANSON & Co.
Edinburgh & London