And now he rests: his greatness and his sweetness

No more shall seem at strife; And death has moulded into calm completeness

The statue of his life.

Where the dews glisten and the songbirds warble,

His dust to dust is laid,

In Nature's keeping, with no pomp of marble

To shame his modest shade.

The forges glow, the hammers all are ringing;

Beneath its smoky vale, Hard by, the city of his love is swing

ing

Its clamorous iron flail.

But round his grave are quietude and beauty,

And the sweet heaven above, The fitting symbols of a life of duty Transfigured into love!

TRINITAS.

AT morn I prayed, "I fain would see How Three are One, and One is Three ; Read the dark riddle unto me."

I wandered forth, the sun and air
I saw bestowed with equal care
On good and evil, foul and fair.

No partial favor dropped the rain; -
Alike the righteous and profane
Rejoiced above their heading grain.

And my heart murmured, "Is it meet That blindfold Nature thus should treat With equal hand the tares and wheat?"

A presence melted through my mood,A warmth, a light, a sense of good, Like sunshine through a winter wood.

I saw that presence, mailed complete In her white innocence, pause to greet A fallen sister of the street.

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Upon her bosom snowy pure
The lost one clung, as if secure
From inward guilt or outward lure.
"Beware!" I said; "in this I see
No gain to her, but loss to thee:
Who touches pitch defiled must be."

I passed the haunts of shame and sin,
And a voice whispered, "Who therein
Shall these lost souls to Heaven's
peace win?

"Who there shall hope and health dispense,

And lift the ladder up from thence Whose rounds are prayers of penitence?"

I said, "No higher life they know; These earth-worms love to have it so. Who stoops to raise them sinks as low."

"Revealed in love and sacrifice, The Holiest passed before thine eyes, One and the same, in threefold guise.

"The equal Father in rain and sun, His Christ in the good to evil done, His Voice in thy soul; and the Three are One !"

I shut my grave Aquinas fast;
The monkish gloss of ages past,
The schoolman's creed aside I cast.
And my heart answered, "Lord, I see
How Three are One, and One is Three ;
Thy riddle hath been read to me !"

THE OLD BURYING-GROUND.
OUR vales are sweet with fern and rose,
Our hills are maple-crowned;
But not from them our fathers chose
The village burying-ground.

The dreariest spot in all the land
To Death they set apart;
With scanty grace from Nature's hand,
And none from that of Art.

A winding wall of mossy stone,
Frost-flung and broken, lines
A lonesome acre thinly grown
With and wandering vines.
grass
Without the wall a birch-tree shows

Its drooped and tasselled head; Within, a stag-horned sumach grows, Fern-leafed, with spikes of red.

There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain

Like white ghosts come and go, The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain, The cow-bell tinkles slow.

Low moans the river from its bed,
The distant pines reply;

Like mourners shrinking from the dead,
They stand apart and sigh.

Unshaded smites the summer sun,
Unchecked the winter blast;
The school-girl learns the place to shun,
With glances backward cast.

For thus our fathers testified,
That he might read who ran,
The emptiness of human pride,
The nothingness of man.

They dared not plant the grave with flowers,

Nor dress the funeral sod,
Where, with a love as deep as ours,
They left their dead with God.

The hard and thorny path they kept
From beauty turned aside;

Nor missed they over those who slept
The grace to life denied.

Yet still the wilding flowers would blow,

The golden leaves would fall,
The seasons come, the seasons go,
And God be good to all.

Above the graves the blackberry hung
In bloom and green its wreath,
And harebells swung as if they rung
The chimes of peace beneath.

The beauty Nature loves to share,
The gifts she hath for all,
The common light, the common air,
O'ercrept the graveyard's wall.

It knew the glow of eventide,
The sunrise and the noon,
And glorified and sanctified

It slept beneath the moon.

With flowers or snow-flakes for its sod, Around the seasons ran,

And evermore the love of God

Rebuked the fear of man.

We dwell with fears on either hand,
Within a daily strife,

And spectral problems waiting stand
Before the gates of life.

The doubts we vainly seek to solve,
The truths we know, are one;

The known and nameless stars revolve Around the Central Sun.

And if we reap as we have sown,
And take the dole we deal,
The law of pain is love alone,
The wounding is to heal.

Unharmed from change to change we glide,

We fall as in our dreams;
The far-off terror at our side
A smiling angel seems.

Secure on God's all-tender heart
Alike rest great and small;
Why fear to lose our little part,
When he is pledged for all?

O fearful heart and troubled brain!
Take hope and strength from this, -
That Nature never hints in vain,
Nor prophesies amiss.

Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave,

Her lights and airs are given Alike to playground and the grave; And over both is Heaven.

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

PIPES of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,
Have heard your sweetest strain !

Dear to the Lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,
To the cottage and the castle

The Scottish pipes are dear; -
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O'er mountain, loch, and glade
But the sweetest of all music

The Pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger

Louder yelled, and nearer crept;

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Round and round the jungle-serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.
"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, -
Pray to-day!" the soldier said;
"To-morrow, death 's between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.'

O, they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
With her ear unto the ground:
66 Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Round the silver domes of Lucknow,
Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne.
O'er the cruel roll of war-drums

Rose that sweet and homelike strain ; And the tartan clove the turban,

As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper
And plaided mountaineer,
To the cottage and the castle
The piper's song is dear.
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O'er mountain, glen, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music

The Pipes at Lucknow played !

MY PSALM.

I MOURN no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,

An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.

The west-winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind

I look in hope or fear;

But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,

To harvest weed and tare;

The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar;

The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May

Blow through the autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look

Through fringed lids to heaven,

And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given ;-

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,

The south-wind softly sigh,
And sweet, calm days in golden haze
Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong;
The graven flowers that wreathe the
sword

Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,-
To build as to destroy;

Nor less my heart for others feel
That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told !

Enough that blessings undeserved

Have marked my erring track;That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back;

That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good; -

That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray

Beyond the Father's sight;

That care and trial seem at last,

Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast,

In purple distance fair;

That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife

Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

And so the west-winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.