A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her
A dignity as moveless as the centre;

So that no influence of earth can stir
Her steadfast courage, or can take away
The holy peacefulness, which, night and day,
Unto her queenly soul doth minister.

Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with care, Hath in her heart wide room for all that beHer heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open is as eglantine full-blown,

Cloudless forever is her brow serene,

Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence
Welleth a noiseless spring of patience

That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green
And full of holiness, that every look,
The greatness of her woman's soul revealing,
Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling
As when I read in God's own holy book.

A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take

From others, but which always fears to speak
Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake ;-

The deep religion of a thankful heart,
Which rests instinctively with Heaven's law
With a full peace, that never can depart
From its own steadfastness ;-a holy awe

For holy things, not those which men call holy,

But such are as revealed to the eyes
Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly
Before the face of daily mysteries ;-

A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly
To the full goldenness of fruitful prime,
Enduring with a firmness that defies

All shallow tricks of circumstance and time,
By a sure insight knowing where to cling,
And where it clingeth never withering-
These are Irene's dowry-which no fate
Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state.

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth
No less than loveth, scorning to be bound
With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth
To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound,

If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes,
Giving itself a pang for others' sakes;

No want of faith, that chills with side-long eye,
Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride

That passeth by upon the other side;

For in her soul there never dwelt a lie,

Right from the hand of God her spirit came
Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence
It came, nor wandered far from thence,
But laboreth to keep her still the same,

Near to her place of birth, that she may not
Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily
Above, that she forgets her ties to earth,
But her whole thought would almost seem to be
How to make glad one lowly human hearth;

For with a gentle courage she doth strive
In thought and word and feeling so to live
As to make earth next Heaven; and her heart
Herein doth show its most exceeding worth,
That, bearing in our frailty her just part,
She hath not shrunk from evils of this life,
But hath gone calmly forth into the strife,
And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood
With lofty strength of patient womanhood:
For this I love her great soul more than all,
That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall,
She walks so bright and Heaven-wise therein-
Too wise, too meek, too womanly to sin.

Exceeding pleasant to mine eyes is she; Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea, Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, Her sight as full of hope and calm to me ;For she unto herself hath builded high A home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth's noblest thing-a Woman perfected.

THE LOST CHILD.

I.

I WANDERED down the sunny glade
And ever mused, my love, of thee;
My thoughts, like little children, played,
As gayly and as guilelessly.

II.

If any chanced to go astray,

Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms.

III.

From that soft nest the happy one
Looked up at me and calmly smiled;
Its hair shone golden in the sun,
And made it seem a heavenly child.

IV.

Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down,
And blest it with a love so deep,

That, like a nursling of her own,
It clasped her neck and fell asleep.

THE CHURCH.

I.

I LOVE the rites of England's church;

I love to hear and see

The priest and people reading slow
The solemn Litany;

I love to hear the glorious swell
Of chanted psalm and prayer,
And the deep organ's bursting heart,
Throb through the shivering air.

II.

Chants, that a thousand years have heard, I love to hear again,

For visions of the olden time

Are wakened by the strain;

With gorgeous hues the window-glass
Seems suddenly to glow,

And rich and red the streams of light
Down through the chancel flow.

III.

And then I murmur, "Surely God
Delighteth here to dwell;

This is the temple of his Son
Whom he doth love so well;

But, when I hear the creed which saith,
This church alone is His,

I feel within my soul that He
Hath purer shrines than this.

IV.

For his is not the builded church,
Nor organ-shaken dome;

In every thing that lovely is

He loves and hath his home; And most in soul that loveth well

All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid.

V.

His church is universal Love,

And whoso dwells therein

Shall need no customed sacrifice

To wash away his sin;

And music in its aisles shall swell,
Of lives upright and true,

Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps

Down-quivering through the blue.