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Strove to engulf the voice of faith
In the shricks of their despair.

There was wailing in the houses,

There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, Mid the silent thrill of hearts;

But the Lord, our shield, was with us,
And ero a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets
With scarce one throb of dread.

And the little children gambolled,
Their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment,

As the huge bombs whirled and blazed; Then turned with silvery laughter

To the sports which children love, Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought

That the good God watched above.

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,

From scores of flame-clad ships, And about us, denser, darker,

Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire.

But the unseen hands of angels

Those death-shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy
Ruled o'er the battle tide;
In the houses ceased the wailing,

And through the war-scarred marts The people strode, with step of hope, To the music in their hearts.

BETWEEN THE SUNKEN SUN AND THE NEW MOON

BETWEEN the sunken sun and the new moon,

I stood in fields through which a rivulet

ran

With scarce perceptible motion, not a span
Of its smooth surface trembling to the tune
Of sunset breezes: "O delicious boon,"
I cried, "of quiet! wise is Nature's plan,
Who, in her realm, as in the soul of man,
Alternates storm with calm, and the loud

noon

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At last the cloud-battalions through long

rifts

Of luminous mists retire: -the strife is done,

And earth once more her wounded beauty lifts,

To meet the healing kisses of the sun.

THE ROSE AND THORN

SHE's loveliest of the festal throng
In delicate form and Grecian face,
A beautiful, incarnate song,

A marvel of harmonious grace,
And yet I know the truth I speak:

From those gay groups she stands apart, A rose upon her tender cheek,

A thorn within her heart.

Though bright her eyes' bewildering gleams,

Fair tremulous lips and shining hair, A something born of mournful dreams

Breathes round her sad enchanted air; No blithesome thoughts at hide and seek From out her dimples smiling start; If still the rose be on her cheek,

A thorn is in her heart.

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A little while I fain would linger here: Behold! who knows what strange, inysterious bars

'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars?

Nor can love deem the face of death is fair:

A little while I still would linger here.

A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart;

(O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part!")

So ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while I fain would hold thee fast.

A little while, when light and twilight meet,

-

Behind, our broken years; before, the deep

Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep,

A little while I still would clasp thee,

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