BLIND BARTIMEUS.

BLIND Bartimeus at the gates

Of Jericho in darkness waits;

He hears the crowd; - he hears a breath

Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!"

And calls, in tones of agony,

̓Ιησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!

The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!"
Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ σε!

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands

The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?"
And he replies, "O give me light!

Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!
And Jesus answers, Υπαγε

Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,

In darkness and in misery,

Recall those mighty Voices Three,
̓Ιησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με !

Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε!

Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε

THE GOBLET OF LIFE.

FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim ;
And though my eyes with tears are dim,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
And chaunt a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers, no garlands green,
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between
Thick leaves of misletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart,

When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours

Was gifted with the wondrous powers,

Lost vision to restore

It

gave new strength, and fearless mood; And gladiators, fierce and rude,

Mingled it in their daily food;

And he who battled and subdued,
A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life's goblet freely press,

The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the colored waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give!

And he who has not learned to know
How false its sparkling bubbles show,
How bitter are the drops of woe,
With which its brim may overflow,

He has not learned to live.