Waive thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead;

And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.

TO HIS EMPTY PURSE.

To you, my purse, and to none other wight Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere, I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere,

Me were as lefe laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie,

Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,

That I of you the blissful sowne may here,

Or see your color like the sunne bright,

That of yelowness had never pere, Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queene of comfort and good companie,

Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now purse, that art to me my livès light,

And saviour, as downe in this world here,

Out of this towne helpe me by your might,

Sith that you woll not be my treasure,
For I am shave as nere as any frere,
But I pray unto your courtesie,
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

When smell of spring fills all the air, And meadows bloom, and blue-birds pair;

When love first laves her sunny head
Over the brook and lily-bed;
Nothing of sound or sight to grieve
From cheering morn to quiet eve,
My heart will not, for all its ease,
Forget the days to follow these.
This loveliness shall be betrayed,
This happiest of music played
From field to field, by stream and
bough,

Shall silent be, as tuneful now;
The silver launch of thistles sai!
Adown the solitary vale;
The blue solicitude of sky
Bent over beauty doomed to die,
With nightly mist shall witness here
The yielded glory of the year.

CLARENCE COOK.

ON ONE WHO DIED IN MAY.
(J. H. E., May 3, 1870).
WHY, Death, what dost thou here,
This time o'year?

Peach-blow and apple-blossom;
Clouds, white as my love's bosom;
Warm wind o' the west
Cradling the robin's nest;
Young meadows hasting their green
laps to fill

With golden dandelion and daffodil;
These are fit sights for spring;
But, oh, thou hateful thing,
What dost thou here?

Why, Death, what dost thou here,
This time o' year?

Fair, at the old oak's knee,
The young anemone;
Fair, the plash places set
With dog-tooth violet;

The first sloop-sail,
The shad-flower pale;
Sweet are all sights,
Sweet are all sounds of spring;
But thou, thou ugly thing,

What dost thou here.

I am his friend, nor ever was his foe? Whose the sweet season, if it be not mine?

Mine, not the bobolink's, that song divine,

Chasing the shadows o'er the flying wheat!

'Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds So sweet.

Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming rose

But his, whose passionate heart long since lay still ?

Whose wan hope pales this snowlike lily tall,

Beside the garden wall, But his, whose radiant eyes and lily grace,

Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill?

Relief from earth's corroding discontent,

Relief from pain,

The satisfaction of perplexing fears,

Full compensation for the long, hard years.

Full understanding of the Lord's intent,

The things that were so puzzling made quite plain:

And all astonished joy as, to the spot, From further skies,

Crowd our beloved with white wingèd feet,

And voices than the chiming harps more sweet,

Faces whose fairness we had half forgot,

And outstretched hands, and welcome in their eyes.

The slimy trail of half-unnoted sin, The sordid wish which daunts the nobler will.

Coarse, brawny hands let down the

net

When the Lord spake and ordered so;

not name,

We fight, we fall!

Noiseless the conflict and unseen of men;

We rise, are beaten down, and rise again,

And all the time we smile, we move the same,

And even to dearest eyes draw close the veil;

But in the blessed heavens these wars are past; Disguise is o'er! With new anointed vision, face to face,

We shall see all, and clasped in close embrace Shall watch the haunting shadow flee at last,

And know as we are known, and fear no more.

MIRACLE.

OH! not in strange portentous way Christ's miracles were wrought of old,

The common thing, the common clay He touched and tinctured, and straightway

It grew to glory manifold.

The barley loaves were daily bread Kneaded and mixed with usual

skill;

No care was given, no spell was said, But when the Lord had blessed, they fed

The multitude upon the hill.

The hemp was sown 'neath common

sun,

Watered by common dews and rain, Of which the fisher's nets were spun; Nothing was prophesied or done

To mark it from the other grain.

Just as in other days, and set

Their backs to labor, bending low;

But quivering, leaping from the lake The marvellous shining burdens

rise

Until the laden meshes break,
And all amazèd, no man spake

But gazed with wonder in his eyes.

So still, dear Lord, in every place

Thou standest by the toiling folk, With love and pity in Thy face, And givest of Thy help and grace

To those who meekly bear the yoke.

Not by strange sudden change and spell,

Baffling and darkening nature's

face;

Thou takest the things we know so well

And buildest on them Thy miracle — The heavenly on the common-place.

The lives which seem so poor, so low, The hearts which are so cramped and dull,

The baffled hopes, the impulse slow, Thou takest, touchest all, and lo! They blossom to the beautiful.

We need not wait for thunder-peal

Resounding from a mount of fire While round our daily paths we feel Thy sweet love and Thy power to hea! Working in us Thy full desire.

INFLUENCE.

COUCHED in the rocky lap of hills
The lake's blue waters gleam,
And thence in linked and measured
rills

Down to the valley stream,
To rise again, led higher and higher,
And slake the city's hot desire.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come ere long,

And bring her bosom full of blessings

Flowers of never fading graces,

book,

For worthy souls whose wise embraces

Store up themselves for Him who is alone

The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's

son.