[From Bitter-Sweet.]

STRENGTH THrough resisTED

TEMPTATION.

God loves not sin, nor I; but in the throng

Of evils that assail us, there are none That yield their strength to Virtue's struggling arm

With such munificent reward of power

As great temptations. We may win by toil Endurance; saintly fortitude by pain; By sickness, patience; faith and trust by fear;

But the great stimulus that spurs to life,

And crowds to generous development Each chastened power and passion of the soul,

Is the temptation of the soul to sin, Resisted, and reconquered, evermore.

[From Bitter-Sweet.]

LIFE FROM DEATH.

LIFE evermore is fed by death,
In earth and sea and sky;
And, that a rose may breathe its
breath,

Something must die.

[From Bitter-Sweet.]

WORTH AND COST.

THUS is it over all the earth!

That which we call the fairest, And prize for its surpassing worth, Is always rarest.

Iron is heaped in mountain piles,
And gluts the laggard forges:
But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles
And lonely gorges.

The snowy marble flecks the land
With heaped and rounded ledges,
But diamonds hide within the sand
Their starry edges.

The finny armies clog the twine
That sweeps the lazy river,
But pearls come singly from the brine,
With the pale diver.

God gives no value unto men

Unmatched by meed of labor; And Cost, of Worth, has ever been The closest neighbor.

Wide is the gate and broad the way
That opens to perdition,
And countless multitudes are they
Who seek admission.

But strait the gate, the path unkind,
That leads to life immortal,
And few the careful feet that find,
The hidden portal.

All common good has common price;
Exceeding good, exceeding;
Christ bought the keys of Paradise
By cruel bleeding;

And every soul that wins a place

Upon its hills of pleasure, Must give its all, and beg for grace To fill the measure.

[From Bitter-Sweet.]

CRADLE SONG.

HITHER, Sleep! a mother wants thee!
Come with velvet arms!
Fold the baby that she grants thee
To thy own soft charms!

Bear him into Dreamland lightly!
Give him sight of flowers!
Do not bring him back till brightly
Break the morning hours!

Close his eyes with gentle fingers!
Cross his hands of snow!
Tell the angels where he lingers
They must whisper low!

I will guard thy spell unbroken
If thou hear my call;

Come, then, Sleep! I wait the token
Of thy downy thrall.

Now I see his sweet lips moving;
He is in thy keep;

Other milk the babe is proving
At the breast of Sleep!

[From Bitter-Sweet.]

TO AN INFANT SLEEPING.

SLEEP, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence!

Sleep like a bud; for soon the sun o life

With ardors quick and passionat shall rise,

And with hot kisses, part the fra grant lips

The folded petals of thy soul! Alas! What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then!

What pride and pain, ambition and despair,

Desire, satiety, and all that fill
With misery, life's fretful enterprise,
Shall wrench and blanch thee, till
thou fall at last,

Joy after joy down-fluttering to the earth,

To be apportioned to the elements!
I marvel, baby, whether it were ill
That he who planted thee should
pluck thee now,

And save thee from the blight that comes on all.

I marvel whether it would not be well That the frail bud should burst in Paradise,

On the full throbbing of an angel's heart!

First of the three, my darling,

Is sacred unto pain;

We have hurt each other often: We shall again,

Buried, forgiven, before it comes, For our love's sake!

The second kiss, my darling,

Is full of joy's sweet thrill;
We have blessed each other always;
We always will.

We shall reach till we feel each other,
Past all of time and space;
We shall listen till we hear each
Fred other

In every place;

The earth is full of messengers Which love sends to and fro; I kiss thee, darling, for all joy Which we shall know!

Through my tears, as I remember What it may be.

other,

And do not understand.

How the written words are so much

colder

Than eye and hand.

I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain Which we may give or take;

Die with no time to give

Any sign that our hearts are faithful

To die, as live.

Token of what they will not see

Who see our parting breath, This one last kiss, my darling, seals The seal of death!

A FAMILY PORTRAIT.

GRANDMOTHER's mother: her age I guess,

Thirteen summers, or something less;
Girlish bust, but womanly air:
Smooth, square forehead with up-
rolled hair.

Lips that lover has never kissed;
Taper fingers and slender wrist;
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;
So they painted the little maid.

On her hand a parrot green
Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,
Look! there's a rent the light shines
through,

Dark with a century's fringe of
dust,
That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust!
Such is the tale the lady old,
Dorothy's daughter's daughter told.

Who the painter was none may tell,-
One whose best was not over well;
Hard and dry, it must be confessed,
Flat as a rose that has long been
pressed:

Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,
Dainty colors of red and white,
And in her slender shape are seen
Hint and promise of stately mien.

Look not on her with eyes of scorn,-
Dorothy Q. was a lady born!
Ay! since the galloping Normans

And still to the three-hilled rebel

town

Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreath they won, The youthful sire and the gray haired

son.

O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.!
Strange is the gift that I owe to you;
Such a gift as never a king
Save to daughter or son might
bring,

All my tenure of heart and hand,
All my title to house and land;
Mother and sister and child and wife
And joy and sorrow and death and
life!

What if a hundred years ago
Those close-shut lips had answered
No.

When forth the tremulous question

came

That cost the maiden her Norman

name,

And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill?

Should I be I, or would it be
One tenth another to nine-tenths me?

Soft is the breath of a maiden's YES: Not the light gossamer stirs with less; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast,

And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babbling air so long! There were tones in the voice that whispered then

You may hear to-day in a hundred

men.

A goodly record for time to show
Of a syllable spoken so long ago:-
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive
For the tender whisper that bade mo
live ?