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OUR OWN.

IF I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
The words unkind

Would trouble my mind,

I said when you went away,
I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you needless pain;
But we vex" our own "

With look and tone

We might never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet well it might be

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;
Ah! brow with that look of scorn,
'Twere a cruel fate

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.
Look up! O God! he cannot hear,
Symphorien ! Symphorien !
Where is my voice? my breath is gone :
Symphorien! my son, my son!
Ah-look!-his clear eyes turn to me,
His firm, sweet, smiling lips I see.
God will be good to thee and me,
Symphorien !

Dear Lord, how long I prayed for him,
With trembling tongue, and vision dim:
For baby hands about my breast,
For baby kisses on it pressed!

Thou heardest me:-this is the rest!

Symphorien! Symphorien!

My child! my boy! it is not much,
Only a sharp and sudden touch,
Think on the Master,-not on me:
Remember His long agony.

The lictors will be merciful,

The headsman's axe will not be dull,
Only one moment-then for thee
The raptures of eternity,
Symphorien !

My baby! oh, my baby boy!
A miracle of life and joy :

A rosy, careless, dimpled thing.
And now Dear Lord, be comforting!—
Martyr and saint. Let be! let be!
He must not know this agony.

Through my heart, too, the sword hath gone.
Be silent lest he hear me groan-

Symphorien! Symphorien!

One last long look: oh saint! my child.
My boy! my own!-He turned and smiled.
And now behind the crowd of spears,
The whirling dust,—he disappears.
Symphorien!

Martyr and saint? You think I care?
Oh, fools and blind! I am his mother.
What! bless the Lord and turn to prayer?
He is my child-I have no other.
No hands to clasp, no lips to kiss.

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Who talks to me of heaven's bliss?

Symphorien! Symphorien !

Come back! come back! Deny the Lord!
Traitor? Who hissed that burning word?
I did not say it. God! be just

I did not keep him; I am dust.
The flesh rebels. I am his mother.
Thou didst not give me any other.
Thine only Son ?—but I am human.
Art thou not God?-I am a woman.
Symphorien! Symphorien!

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
Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills
The early risen poor were coming in,

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-
Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear,

Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick,
Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase

The death-like images of dark away.

"Room for the leper!" And aside they stood-
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood-all
Who met him on his way-and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is like an iron nerve put down,
Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!"

'Twas now the first

Of the Judean autumn; and the leaves,
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path,
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young,
And eminently beautiful, and life

Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip,

And sparkled in his glance and in his mien
There was a gracious pride that every eye
Followed with benisons—and this was he!
With the soft airs of summer there had come
A torpor on his frame, which not the speed

Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast

Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs
The spirit to its bent, might drive away.

The blood beat not as wont within his veins ;
Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth
Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien,

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