SONG FROM “AGATHA.”

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines, where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher: little Lisa went,

And I am lonely.
The world is great: the wind comes rushing by,
I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry
And hurt my heart: my little sister went,

And I am lonely. The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,

And I am lonely.

MIDNIGHT by the chapel bell!
Homeward, homeward all, farewell!
I with you, and you with me,
Miles are short with company.

Heart of Mary, bless the way,
Keep us all by night and day!

Moon and stars at feast with night
Now have drunk their fill of light.
Home they hurry, making time
Trot apace, like merry rhyme.

Heart of Mary, mystic rose,
Send us all a sweet repose!

He was the elder and a little man

Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,

Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. I held him wise, and when he talked to me Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the

best, I thought his knowledge marked the boundary Where men grew blind, though angels knew the

rest.

If he said " Hush!” I tried to hold my breath; Wherever he said “Come!” I stepped in faith.

So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued. A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burthen of the world.

Long years have left their writing on my brow,

But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam Of those young mornings are about me now,

When we two wandered toward the far-off stream

With rod and line. Our basket held a store

Baked for us only, and I thought with joy That I should have my share, though he had more,

Because he was the elder and a boy.

The firmaments of daisies since to me

Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, The bunchéd cowslip's pale transparency

Carries that sunshine of sweet memories,

And wild-rose branches take their finest scent From those blest hours of infantine content.

Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better-saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love-
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread for ever.

Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways,

Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, Then with the benediction of her gaze

Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still