CURRENT POEMS.

THE SAINT AND THE SINNER.

HEART-Worn and weary the woman sat
Her baby sleeping across her knee,
And the work her fingers were toiling at
Seemed a pitiful task for such as she.
Mending shoes for the little feet

That pattered over the cabin floor,
While the bells of the Sabbath day rang sweet,
And the neighbors passed by the open door.

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:
"Father, my days are work-days all;
I know not Sabbath. I dare not go
Where the beautiful bells ring out and call.
For who would look to the meat and drink
And tend the children and keep the place?
I pray in silence, and try to think,

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 beautiful to die as thou didst die,
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh,
At rest in all the best that love could give!

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;
To breathe blest prophecies with failing breath,
Soul-bound to beauty in that latest hour!

How sweet to greet, in final kinship owned,
The master-spirit to thy dreams so dear;
At last from his immortal lips to hear,
The dire for Imogen, and thee, intoned!
How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How beautiful to die as thou didst die,
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh,
At rest in all the best that love could give!
FLORENCE EARLE COATES.

-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,
Leaving us behind here, where
Pass and pass the years.

Soulless as Echo, she can never know
Our kisses that she hastens, nor our tears.
Not for us watchers do her blossoms blow;
Their day is come-they must.