RECOMPENSE.

THE Temple of the Lord stood open wide,

And worshippers went up from many lands,

Who, kneeling at the altar, side by side,

Made votive offerings with uplifted hands.

Their gifts were gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.

Then, with a lustrous gleam and rapturous stir,

While all the people trembled and turned pale.

There flew an angel to the altar-rail, Who, with anointed eyes, keen to discern,

Gazed, noting all the kneelers, who they were,

And what was each one's tribute to the Lord,

And, gift for gift, with sudden, swift return,

Bestowed on every suppliant his reward.

O mocking recompense! To one, a spear!

To many, each a thorn! To some a nail!

To all, a cross! But unto none a crown!

At last, they saw the angel disappear. Then, as their timid hearts shook off their fear,

Some rose in anger, flung their treasures down,

And cried, "Such gifts from Heaven as these, we spurn! They are too cruel, and too keen to bear!

They are too grievous for a human breast!

Heaven sends us heartache, misery, and despair!

We knelt for blessing, but we rise unblest!

If Heaven so mock us, we will cease to pray!"

They left the altar, and they went

their way;

But their blaspheming hearts were then self-torn

THREE SONNETS ON PRAYER. LORD, what a change within us one short hour

Or others that we are not always

strong;

That we are ever overborne with

care:

make

What heavy burdens from our bosoms take,

What parched grounds refresh, as with a shower!

We kneel, and all around us seems to lower;

We rise, and all, the distant and the

near,

Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear;

We kneel how weak, we rise how full of power! Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,

less be,

Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer,

And joy, and strength, and courage, are with Thee?

A GARDEN So well watered before

morn

Is hotly up, that not the swart sun's blaze,

Down beating with unmitigated rays, Nor arid winds from scorching places borne,

Through the long day a heavenly freshness keep,

If, knowing how the day and the day's glare

Must beat upon them, we would largely steep

And water them betimes with dews of prayer.

WHEN hearts are full of yearning tenderness,

For the loved absent, whom we can not reach

By deed or token, gesture or kind speech,

The spirit's true affection to express; When hearts are full of innermost distress,

[by, And we are doomed to stand inactive Watching the soul's or body's agony, Which human effort helps not to

make less

Then like a cup capacious to contain The overflowings of the heart, is prayer:

The longing of the soul is satisfied, The keenest darts of anguish blunted

are;

And, though we can not cease to yearn or grieve,

Yet we have learned in patience to

abide.

LORD, MANY TIMES I AM AWEARY.

LORD, many times I am aweary quite

Of mine own self, my sin, my vanity

Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright,Weary of me.

And hate against myself I often bear, And enter with myself in fierce debate:

Take Thou my part against myself, nor share

In that just hate!

Best friends might loathe us, if what things perverse

We know of our own selves, they also knew:

Lord, Holy One! if Thou who know

est worse

Shouldst loathe us too!

sorely tried

decide.

Some years ago, a friend into my

care

Some jewels gave-rich, precious gems they were;

But having given them in my charge, this friend

Did afterward nor come for them, nor

send,

But left them in my keeping for so

long,

germs of mighty thought

That now it almost seems to me a

Must have their silent undergrowth,

wrong

must underground be wrought;