That these shall seem but their at- | Some sawn in twain, that his heart's tendants both; desire, For the good of men's souls, might be satisfied By the drawing of all to the righteous side. One day, as Ambrose was seeking the truth In his lonely walk, he saw a youth "T were pity he should not believe as he ought. So he set himself by the young man's side, And the state of his soul with questions tried; But the heart of the stranger was hardened indeed, Nor received the stamp of the one true creed; And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to find Till the slow mountain's dial-hand The Lord's great work sits idle too? That light dare not o'erleap the brink Of morn, because 't is dark with you? Though yet your valleys skulk in night, In God's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers, with their sickles bright, Troop, singing, down the mountainside: Come up, and feel what health there is In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, As, bending with a pitying kiss, The night-shed tears of Earth she dries! The Lord wants reapers: O, mount up, Before night comes, and says, "Too late!" Stay not for taking scrip or cup, The Master hungers while ye wait; "T is from these heights alone your eyes The advancing spears of day can see, That o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, To break your long captivity. II. Lone watcher on the mountain-height, Thou hast thine office; we have ours; And when he giveth work to do, But not the less do thou aspire Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire, Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech. Yet God deems not thine aeried sight More worthy than our twilight dim; For meek Obedience, too, is Light, And following that is finding Him. THE CAPTIVE. IT was past the hour of trysting, From its toiling at the mill. Then the great moon on a sudden O'er the eastern hill-top stood, Dread closed vast and vague about her And her thoughts turned fearfully To her heart, if there some shelter From the silence there might be, Like bare cedars leaning inland From the blighting of the sea. Yet he came not, and the stillness Dampened round her like a tomb; She could feel cold eyes of spirits Looking on her through the gloom, She could hear the groping footsteps Of some blind, gigantic doom. Suddenly the silence wavered Like a light mist in the wind, For a voice broke gently through it, Felt like sunshine by the blind, And the dread, like mist in sunshine, "Once my love, my love forever, As from Holy Land I came. "On a green spot in the desert, Gleaming like an emerald star, "There thou 'lt find the humble postern Slept again the aspen silence, But her loneliness was o'er; Round her soul a motherly patience Clasped its arms forevermore; From her heart ebbed back the sorrow, Leaving smooth the golden shore. Donned she now the pilgrim scallop, Took the pilgrim staff in hand; Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward, Wandered she o'er sea and land; And her footsteps in the desert Fell like cool rain on the sand. Soon, beneath the palm-tree's shadow, There she saw no surly warder With an eye like bolt and bar; Through her soul a sense of music Throbbed, and, like a guardian Lar, On the threshold stood an angel, Bright and silent as a star. Fairest seemed he of God's seraphs, |