Not This.

Like one that having need of, deep within,
The surgeon's knife,

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Would hardly bear that it should graze the skin, Though for his life.

Nay then but He, who best doth understand
Both what we need,

And what can bear, did take my case in hand,
Nor crying heed.

CHRIST'S CUP.

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And they say unto him, we can.".

- MARK X. 39.

Aн! little knew I, Lord, when thou wouldst first
Allure my trembling soul to thy dear side,
And bid me, sheltered there, in peace abide;
When I did pray as they two prayèd erst
Of thine own cup to slake their spirits' thirst,
And to sit by thee one day glorified;

Ah! little knew I how it must betide

With youth's bright hopes, and my young spirit's

burst;

How — pale, and sad, and trembling, — I should

see

Earth's visions, one by one, fade all away;

How this warm heart should torn and riven be,
How bitter tears should feed me night and day,
Ere on thy love my soul her all would stay,
Or walk this busy earth alone with thee.

CHASTENING.

WITHIN this leaf, to every eye
So little worth, doth hidden lie
Most rare and subtle fragrancy.

Wouldst thou its secret strength unbind? Crush it, and thou shalt perfume find Sweet as Arabia's spicy wind.

In this dull stone, so poor, and bare
Of shape or lustre, patient care
Will find for thee a jewel rare:

But first must skilful hands essay
With file and flint to clear away
The film which hides its fire from day.

This leaf? this stone? It is thy heart: It must be crushed by pain and smart, It must be cleansed by sorrow's art,

Ere it will yield a fragrance sweet,
Ere it will shine a jewel meet
To lay before thy dear Lord's feet.

PILGRIMAGE.

I TRAVELLED on, seeing the hill where lay
My expectation :

A long it was and weary way:

The gloomy Cave of Desperation

I left on the one, and on the other side
The Rock of Pride.

And so I came to Fancy's Meadow, strowed
With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,

But I was quickened by my hour:

So to Care's Copse I came, and there got through With much ado.

That led me to the Wild of Passion, which

A wasted place, but sometime rich:

Here I was robbed of all my gold,

Save one good angel, which a friend had tied
Close to my side.

Pilgrimage.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gained the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found!

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With that abashed, and struck with many a sting Of swarming fears,

I fell, and cried, Alas, my King!

Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived:

My hill was further: so I flung away,
Yet heard a cry,

Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives. If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,

And but a chair.