Thy mercj' shall transcend my longing : I seek but love, and Thou art Love !
I go to find my lost and mourned for Safe in Thy sheltering goodness still,
And all that hope and faith foreshadow Made perfect in Thy holy will !
"THE STORY OF IDA"
Francesca Alexander, whose pen and pencil have so reverently transcribed the simple faith and life of the Italian peasantry, wrote the narrative published with John Ruskin's intro- duction under the title, The Story of Ida.
Weary of jangling noises never stilled, The skeptic's sneer, the bigot's hate, the
din Of clashing texts, the webs of creed men spin Round simple truth, the children grown
who build With gilded cards their new Jerusalem, Busy, with sacerdotal tailorings And tinsel gauds, bedizening holy things, I turn, with glad and grateful heart, from
them To the sweet story of the Florentine Immortal in her blameless maidenhood, Beautiful as God's angels and as good ; Feeling that life, even now, may be divine With love no wrong can ever change to
hate, No sin make less than all-compassionate !
THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT
A tender child of summers three,
Seeking her little bed at night,
Paused on the dark stair timidly.
“Oh, mother! Take my hand,” said she,
“And then the dark will all be light.”
We older children grope our way
From dark behind to dark before;
And only when our hands we lay,
Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,
And there is darkness nevermore.
Reach downward to the sunless days
Wherein our guides are blind as we,
And faith is small and hope delays;
Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,
And let us feel the light of Thee!
THE TWO LOVES
Smoothing soft the nestling head
Of a maiden fancy-led,
Thus a grave-eyed woman said :
" Richest gifts are those we make, Dearer than the love we take That we give for love's own sake.
" Well I know the heart's unrest ; Mine has been the common quest. To be loved and therefore blest.
" Favors undeserved were mine ; At my feet as on a shrine Love has laid its gifts divine.
" Sweet the offerings seemed, and yet With their sweetness came regret. And a sense of unpaid debt.
" Heart of mine imsatisfied, Was it vanity or pride That a deeper joy denied ?
" Hands that ope but to receive Empty close ; they only live Richly who can richly give.
" Still," she sighed, with moistening eyes, " Love is sweet in any guise ; But its best is sacrifice !
" He who, giving, does not crave Likest is to Him who gave Life itself the loved to save.
" Love, that self-forgetful gives, Sows surprise of ripened sheaves, Late or soon its own receives."
ADJUSTMENT
The tree of Faith its bare, dry boughs must shed That nearer heaven the living ones may
climb ; The false must fail, though from our shores of time
