CURRENT POEMS. THE SAINT AND THE SINNER. HEART-Worn and weary the woman sat That pattered over the cabin floor, The children played, and the baby slept, And the busy needle went and came, When lo, on the threshold stone there stept A priestly figure, and named her name: "What shrift is this for the Sabbath day, When bells are calling, and far and near The people gather to praise and pray. Woman, why are you toiling here?" Like one in a dream she answered low: For God's love can listen, and give me grace." The years passed on, and with fast and prayer The good priest climbed to the gate of rest, And a tired woman stood waiting there, Her work-worn hands to her bosom pressed: "Oh saint, thrice blessed, mount thou on high, He heard the welcoming angels say. When meekly, gently, she passed him by, Who had mended shoes on the Sabbath day. MADELINE Bridges. -Ladies' Home Journal, February, 1893. TENNYSON. How beautiful to live as thou didst live! How excellent to bear into old age The poet's ardor and the heart of youth, To keep to the last sleep the vow of truth, And leave to lands that grieve a glowing page! How glorious to feel the spirit's power Unbroken by the near approach of death; How sweet to greet, in final kinship owned, -Lippincott's, April, 1893. PHILLIPS BROOKS. THUS, childlike, "I am going home!" he said, And spake no more. The great, good heart lay still; The majesty of death encrown'd his head, And holy silence all the room did fill. The nation's pulse, smit with a sudden chill, Beat feverish strokes that, like a midnight knell Wild pealing from the lofty-tower'd bell, Sent through the homes of men a startling thrill. Well fill'd his part, the man of spotless fame, The missioner from Jesus Christ to all, So earnest, tender, yet so nobly grand, With human heart set in a heavenly frame. At morning-dawn he heard his Father's call And homeward pass'd into his Father's land. THOMAS MACKellar. -Germantown, January 24, 1893. APRIL'S AFIELD. APRIL'S afield, April's in the air! Almost you may see each hour Willows that at dawn were bare, Meadows that were brown, On which the lengthening mellow day has burned, Creep into green before the sun goes down, And some black bough, while mortal backs were turned, Swift stolen into flower. April's afield, April's in the air! Fleeting over Earth's slow dust, Soulless as Echo, she can never know |