“Did not the gifts of sun and air
To good and ill alike declare
The all-compassionate Father’s care?
“In the white soul that stooped to raise
The lost one from her evil ways,
Thou saw’st the Christ, whom angels praise!
“A bodiless Divinity,
The still small Voice that spake to thee
Was the Holy Spirit’s mystery!
“O blind of sight, of faith how small!
Father, and Son, and Holy Call;
This day thou hast denied them all!
“Revealed in love and sacrifice,
The Holiest passed before thine eyes,
One and the same, in threefold guise.
“The equal Father in rain and sun,
His Christ in the good to evil done,
His Voice in thy soul;—and the Three are One!”
I shut my grave Aquinas fast;
The monkish gloss of ages past,
The schoolman’s creed aside I cast.
And my heart answered, “Lord, I see
How Three are One, and One is Three;
Thy riddle hath been read to me!”
THE SISTERS
A PICTURE BY BARRY
The shade for me, but over thee
The lingering sunshine still;
As, smiling, to the silent stream
Comes down the singing rill.
So come to me, my little one,—
My years with thee I share,
And mingle with a sister’s love
A mother’s tender care.
But keep the smile upon thy lip,
The trust upon thy brow;
Since for the dear one God hath called
We have an angel now.
Our mother from the fields of heaven
Shall still her ear incline;
Nor need we fear her human love
Is less for love divine.
The songs are sweet they sing beneath
The trees of life so fair,
But sweetest of the songs of heaven
Shall be her children’s prayer.
Then, darling, rest upon my breast,
And teach my heart to lean
With thy sweet trust upon the arm
Which folds us both unseen!
“THE ROCK” IN EL GHOR
Dead Petra in her hill-tomb sleeps,
Her stones of emptiness remain;
Around her sculptured mystery sweeps
The lonely waste of Edom’s plain.
From the doomed dwellers in the cleft
The bow of vengeance turns not back;
Of all her myriads none are left
Along the Wady Mousa’s track.
Clear in the hot Arabian day
Her arches spring, her statues climb;
Unchanged, the graven wonders pay
No tribute to the spoiler, Time!
Unchanged the awful lithograph
Of power and glory undertrod;
Of nations scattered like the chaff
Blown from the threshing-floor of God.
Yet shall the thoughtful stranger turn
From Petra’s gates with deeper awe,
To mark afar the burial urn
Of Aaron on the cliffs of Hor;
And where upon its ancient guard
Thy Rock, El Ghor, is standing yet,—
Looks from its turrets desertward,
And keeps the watch that God has set.
The same as when in thunders loud
It heard the voice of God to man,
As when it saw in fire and cloud
The angels walk in Israel’s van!
Or when from Ezion-Geber’s way
It saw the long procession file,
And heard the Hebrew timbrels play
The music of the lordly Nile;
