All that I loved has passed,
And left me at the last
Alone!—alone!

Fold up the tent!

Above the mountain's crest,

I hear a clear voice calling, calling clear, "To rest! To rest!"

And I am glad to go,

For the sweet oil is low,
And rest is best!

THE PRUNER

God is a zealous pruner,

For He knows

Who, falsely tender, spares the knife
But spoils the rose.

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.

SEEDS

What shall we be like when

We cast this earthly body and attain

To immortality?

What shall we be like then?

Ah, who shall say

What vast expansions shall be ours that day? What transformations of this house of clay, To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day?

Ah, who shall say?

But this we know,

We drop a seed into the ground,

A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry, And, in the fulness of its time, is seen

A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned Beyond the pride of any earthly queen, Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare, The perfect emblem of its Maker's care.

This from a shrivelled seed?

-Then may man hope indeed!

For man is but the seed of what he shall be, When, in the fulness of his perfecting,

He drops the husk and cleaves his upward

way,

Through earth's retardings and the clinging clay,

Into the sunshine of God's perfect day.
No fetters then! No bonds of time or space!
But powers as ample as the boundless grace
That suffered man, and death, and yet, in
tenderness,

Set wide the door, and passed Himself before

As He had promised-to prepare a place.

Yea, we may hope!

For we are seeds,

Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming. Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting,

His loving care

May find some use for even a humble tare.

We know not what we shall be-only thisThat we shall be made like Him-as He is.

WHIRRING WHEELS

Lord, when on my bed I lie,
Sleepless, unto Thee I'll cry;
When my brain works overmuch,
Stay the wheels with Thy soft touch.

Just a quiet thought of Thee,
And of Thy sweet charity,-
Just a little prayer, and then
I will turn to sleep again.

THE BELLS OF YS

When the Bells of Ys rang softly,-softly,
Soft-and sweet-and low,

Not a sound was heard in the old gray town,
As the silvery tones came floating down,
But life stood still with uncovered head,
And doers of ill did good instead,
And abroad the Peace of God was shed,
When the bells aloft sang softly-softly,
Soft-and sweet-and low,-

The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,-
Aloft, and aloft, and alow.

And still those Bells ring softly-softly,
Soft-and sweet-and low.

Though full twelve hundred years have gone,
Since the waves rolled over the old gray town,
Bold men of the sea, in the grip of the flow,
Still hear the Bells, as they pass and go,
Or win to life with their hearts aglow,

When the Bells below sing softly-softly,
Soft-and sweet-and low,-

The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,-
Alow, and alow, and alow.

O the Mystical Bells, they still ring softly,
Soft-and sweet-and low,-

For the sound of their singing shall never die
In the hearts that are tuned to their melody;
And down in the world's wild rush and roar,
That sweeps us along to the Opening Door,

Hearts still beat high as they beat of yore, When the Bells sing softly-softlysoftly,

Soft-and sweet-and low,

The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,-
Alow, and aloft, and alow.

For, first, his thoughts of his own self are full; Until another comes his heart to rule.

For them, life's best is centred round their love;

Till younger lives come all their love to prove.

CUP OF MIXTURE

For every Guest who comes with him to sup, The Host compounds a strangely mingled

cup;

Red Wine of Life and Dregs of Bitterness,
And, will-he, nil-he, each must drink it up.