THE WAYS

To every man there openeth
A Way, and Ways, and a Way,

And the High Soul climbs the High Way,
And the Low Soul gropes the Low,
And in between, on the misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.

But to every man there openeth
A High Way, and a Low.
And every man decideth
The Way his soul shall go.

AD FINEM

Britain! Our Britain! uprisen in the splendour Of your white wrath at treacheries so vile;

Roused from your sleep, become once more defender

Of those high things which make life worth life's while!

Now, God be thanked for even such a wakening
From the soft dreams of peace in selfish ease,
If it but bring about the great heart-quickening,
Of which are born the larger liberties.

Ay, better such a rousing up from slumber;
Better this fight for His High Empery;
Better-e'en though our fair sons without number
Pave with their lives the road to victory.

But-Britain! Britain! What if it be written, On the great scrolls of Him who holds the ways, That to the dust the foe shall not be smitten Till unto Him we pledge redeemèd days?—

AD FINEM (continued)

Till unto Him we turn-in deep soul-sorrow,
For all the past that was so stained and dim,
For all the present ills-and for a morrow
Founded and built and consecrated to Him.

Take it to heart! This ordeal has its meaning;
By no fell chance has such a horror come.
Take it to heart!-nor count indeed on winning,
Until the lesson has come surely home.

Take it to heart!-nor hope to find assuagement Of this vast woe, until, with souls subdued, Stripped of all less things, in most high engagement,

We seek in Him the One and Only Good.

Not of our own might shall this tribulation
Pass, and once more to earth be peace restored;
Not till we turn, in solemn consecration,

Wholly to Him, our One and Sovereign Lord.

EVENING BRINGS US HOME

Evening brings us home,

From our wanderings afar,

From our multifarious labours,

From the things that fret and jar;
From the highways and the byways,
From the hill-tops and the vales;
From the dust and heat of city street,
And the joys of lonesome trails,-

Evening brings us home at last,
To Thee.

From plough and hoe and harrow, from the burden of the day,

From the long and lonely furrow in the stiff reluctant clay,

From the meads where streams are purling,

From the moors where mists are curling,

Evening brings us home at last,
To rest, and warmth, and Thee.

EVENING BRINGS US HOME (continued)

From the pastures where the white lambs to their dams are ever crying,

From the byways where the Night lambs Thy Love are crucifying,

From the labours of the lowlands,

From the glamour of the glowlands,

Evening brings us home at last,

To the fold, and rest, and Thee.

From the Forests of Thy Wonder, where the mighty giants grow,

Where we cleave Thy works asunder, and lay the

mighty low,

From the jungle and the prairie,

From the realms of fact and faerie,—

Evening brings us home at last,
To rest, and cheer, and Thee.

From our wrestlings with the spectres of the dim and dreary way,

From the vast heroic chances of the never-ending

fray,

From the Mount of High Endeavour,

In the hope of Thy For Ever,—

Evening brings us home at last,
To trust and peace, and Thee.