OUR OWN. IF I had known in the morning Would trouble my mind, I said when you went away, With look and tone We might never take back again. For though in the quiet evening You may give me the kiss of peace, That never for me The pain of the heart should cease. How many go forth in the morning Who never come home at night; And hearts have broken For harsh words spoken, That sorrow can ne'er set right. We have careful thought for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest, But oft for "our own" The bitter tone, Though we love our own the best. Ah! lip with the curve impatient; Were the night too late To undo the work of morn. MARGARET E. SANGSTER. SAINT SYMPHORIEN. (Led out to martydom: His mother speaking from the wall.) SYMPHORIEN! Symphorien! Look up! the heavens are parting wide. He waits for thee-the Crucified. The pain is short, the palm is near. Dear Lord, how long I prayed for him, Thou heardest me:-this is the rest! Symphorien! Symphorien! My child! my boy! it is not much, The lictors will be merciful, The headsman's axe will not be dull, My baby! oh, my baby boy! A rosy, careless, dimpled thing. Through my heart, too, the sword hath gone. Symphorien! Symphorien! One last long look: oh saint! my child. Martyr and saint? You think I care? Who talks to me of heaven's bliss? Symphorien! Symphorien ! Come back! come back! Deny the Lord! I did not keep him; I am dust. Come back! ROSE TERRY COOKE. THE LEPER. St. Luke. Chapter xvii. "ROOM for the leper! Room!" And, as he came, The cry pass'd on-" Room for the leper! Room!" Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, And all that in a city murmur swells- Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick, The death-like images of dark away. "Room for the leper!" And aside they stood- 'Twas now the first Of the Judean autumn; and the leaves, Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, And sparkled in his glance and in his mien Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; |