Cross of Jesus,—blessed symbol
Of his sacrifice and death;
Voice of love, and mercy's message,
Born of his expiring breath.
Here the world may bring its sorrow,
Here the world may leave its sin;
Tribes and nations seek a refuge,
Find the door, and enter in.
Prince and beggar, man and maiden,
Find alike a common plea;
And the trumpets of salvation
Sound a welcome far and free.
Here, O Christ, thy love adoring,
I would thy salvation see;
And amid redemption's story,
Wonder thou shouldst die for me.

O'er the wrecks of time and nations,

The torch of Love dispels the gloom
Of life, and animates the tomb;
But never let it idly flare
On gazers in the open air,
Nor turn it quite away from one
To whom it serves for moon and sun,
And who alike in night or day
Without it could not find his way.

‘Arise, arise, you pretty maiden,
Arise, arise, it is almost day,
And come unto your bedroom window
And hear what your true love do say.’

‘Begone, begone, you'll awake my father,
My mother she can quickly hear;
Go and tell your tales unto some other
And whisper softly in their ear.’

‘I won't begone for I love no other,
You are the girl that I adore;
It's I, my dear, who love you dearly,
It's the pains of love that have brought me here.’

Then the old man heard the couple talking,
He so nimbly stepped out of bed,

Who shall lay bare love's inmost meaning, who
Reveal the sovereign splendor on its throne,
Or utter forth in language the unknown!—
Old is all language, but all love is new.
How may I tell you of this love that to
Your bosom draws me from my very own,
And wakes me to one need, and one alone,—
O love, the need to be reborn from you!

There is no word whereby love may declare
His holy will; but in the breathless deed
Of adoration, in the primal prayer
At the belovèd breast, he tells his need
To the one kind and conquering heart, and she

Thou knowest not what “hopeless love” may be?
How shouldst thou know, being worthy of all love?
How might thy merit ever tower above
In hopeless inaccessibility?
Free art thou as the wind that loves the sea,
The little hills and every trembling grove,
But like the wind, 'tis thine as well to rove
High heaven in calm and sure serenity.

Faint for thy breath a woodland pool lies still,
And cloistered round with leafage grows forlorn;
Rank weeds upon her marges do her ill,
Who once by thy swift couriers was borne

Once I thought to die for love,
Till I found that women prove
Traitors in their smiling.
They say men unconstant be,
But themselves love change we see,
Till new grows old, and old grows stale, and all is but beguiling.

From my Love has come a letter, the sudden summons of my Lord.
A solitary darkened Chamber, without lamp and without candle.
Jama seized my arm and hence he bore me, then with me went no companion.
Gloom as deep as Savan's darkness, blackness as of Bhadon's nights.
Battered by four winds of heaven, ever pants my labouring breast.
Hence are we constrained to journey, here in no case can we rest.
What can we take into His presence? There is nothing in my purse.
Paltu, coming into this world, with bitter tears our eyes o'erflowed.

In time of yore, when shepherds dwelt
Upon the mountain rocks;
And simple people never felt
The pain of lovers' mocks;
But little birds would carry tales
'Twixt Susan and her sweeting;
And all the dainty nightingales
Did sing at lovers' meeting;
Then might you see what looks did pass
Where shepherds did assemble;
And where the life of true love was
When hearts could not dissemble.

Then yea and nay was thought an oath
That was not to be doubted;
And when it came to faith and troth
We were not to be flouted.

EUDOXIA.
Third picture

O silent my sister, who stands by my side at the shore,
Back gazing with me on those waves which we mortals call years,
That rose, grew, and threaten'd, and climax'd, and broke, and were o'er,
While we still sit watching and watching, our cheeks free from tears
O sister, with looks so familiar, yet strange, flitting by,
Say, say, hast thou been to those dead years as faithful as I?
Have they cast at thy feet also, jewels and whitening bones,
Gold, silver, and wreck-wood, dank sea-weed and treasures of cost?

Love is a thing of frail and delicate growth;
Soon checked, soon fostered; feeble, and yet strong:
It will endure much, suffer long, and bear
What would weigh down an angel's wing to earth,
And yet mount heavenward; but not the less
It dieth of a word, a look, a thought;
And when it dies, it dies without a sign
To tell how fair it was in happier hours:
It leaves behind reproaches and regrets,
And bitterness within affection's well,
For which there is no healing.