Very tame our passions nestle,

Very even seem our brows, Outward forces rarely wrestle, Soft the words the age allows : Incommunicable sadness

Yet is haunting all the whileYet one day the crouching madness Leaps from under all the smile.

Ours is not the early Faith

Which our fathers gazed upon,
Till the iron gates of Death
With a golden splendour shone ;
We must rest content with Hope,
Fair to aid, but frail to rule:
Gentle Hope! too weak to cope
With the villain and the fool.

Think not that the olden story
Can within its depth enfold

All the beauty and the glory

That the heart of Man can hold.

Think not rashly that, because Modern life is smooth and fine, 'Tis not subject to the laws

Of the Master's high design: That we less require endurance Than in days of coarser plan,That we less demand assurance Of the Godhead hid in Man.

Trust me, Truth is still at war,
Just as in the hard old time,
With a thousand things that are-
Births of woe and food for crime :
Still to vindicate the right

Is a rough and thankless game;

Still the leader in the fight

Is the hindmost in the fame.

True, the penal fires are out

True, the rack in rust has lain-

But the secret burning Doubt

And the pangs of Thought remain :

True, the mind of Man is free

Free to speak and write at will,

But a power you cannot see

Still can plague, and waste, and kill.

Very tame our passions nestle,

Very even seem our brows, Outward forces rarely wrestle, Soft the words the age allows : Incommunicable sadness

Yet is haunting all the whileYet one day the crouching madness Leaps from under all the smile.

Ours is not the early Faith
Which our fathers gazed upon,
Till the iron gates of Death

With a golden splendour shone ;
We must rest content with Hope,
Fair to aid, but frail to rule :
Gentle Hope! too weak to cope
With the villain and the fool.

Ours the shame to understand
That the World prefers the lie
That, with medicine in her hand,
She will sink and choose to die ;

Ours the agonising sense

Of the Heaven this Earth might be,

If, from their blank indifference,

Men woke one hour and felt as we !

Heroes of the inward strife,

Whom your spirit cannot prize;

Saints of the mysterious life,

Whom no Church can canonize;

G

Unremembered—unrecorded—

They are passing by you now;
Other gifts are here rewarded,
To far other names you bow.

Yet the Power appears to-morrow,
That to-day seems wholly lost,
And the reproductive sorrow

Is a treasure worth the cost:
Fate permits no break or suture
In the' Ideal of Mankind,
Weaving out its brightest Future
From the Martyrs of the Mind.

WRITTEN FOR THE CONSUMPTIVE HOSPITAL.

IF parting hours are ever had
In reverence among men ;
If fierce emotions turn to sad,
And sins to sorrows then ;
If the grave presence of the Last

The lightest scenes can hallow,
Adorn each desert of the Past,
And deepen every shallow :

Then, surely, in the hours that rend
The spirit from the frame

In which it dwelt so long, and send
The dust to whence it came ;

'Tis, above all things, well that those About to go for ever,

Should solemnly and calmly close

Their scene of hard Endeavour!

Gladly the soldier falls in strife
Hailed by his comrades' cheers;
Bravely the wise man yields his life
Amid familiar tears;

But rare must be his spirit's tone,
Who, after years repented,
Can dare lie down and die alone,
Neglected, unlamented!

Through Faith the yearning eye may fix
On joys that almost blind,

Yet should some gentle feelings mix,
For what is left behind.

And, if both heart and mind grow weak

In agony or languor,

Let the last wandering accents speak

Of sorrow, not of anger!

Oh! who can tell how far may fly

Into the world unseen,

The record of some pitying sigh,

Some sympathetic mien :

How deep may the abyss be stirred

Of ghostly recollection!

How long may last one casual word
Of brotherly affection!