“Seek Love in the pity of others' woe,

In the gentle relief of another's care,

In the darkness of night and the winter's snow, With the naked and outcast-seek Love there."

THE GOLDEN NET.

ENEATH a white-thorn's lovely may,

BENEAT

Three virgins at the break of day."Whither, young man, whither away? Alas for woe! alas for woe ! "

They cry, and tears for ever flow.

The first was clothed in flames of fire,
The second clothed in iron wire ;

The third was clothed in tears and sighs,
Dazzling bright before my eyes.
They bore a net of golden twine
To hang upon the branches fine.
Pitying, I wept to see the woe
That love and beauty undergo-

To be clothed in burning fires
And in ungratified desires,

And in tears clothed night and day;
It melted all my soul away.

When they saw my tears, a smile
That might heaven itself beguile
Bore the golden net aloft,
As on downy pinions soft,
Over the morning of my day.
Underneath the net I stray,
Now entreating Flaming-fire,
Now entreating Iron-wire,
Now entreating tears-and-sighs.-
Oh, when will the morning rise?

"I

THE GREY MONK.

SEE, I see," the Mother said,

"My children die for lack of bread!

What more has the merciless tyrant said?” The Monk sat him down on her stony bed.

The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side, His hands and feet were wounded wide,

His body bent, his arms and knees

Like to the roots of ancient trees.

His eye was dry, no tear could flow,
A hollow groan bespoke his woe;
He trembled and shuddered upon the bed ;
At length with a feeble cry he said:

"When God commanded this hand to write
In the shadowy hours of deep midnight,
He told me that all I wrote should prove
The bane of all that on earth I love.

"My brother starved between two walls, His children's cry my soul appals

I mocked at the rack and the grinding chainMy bent body mocks at their torturing pain.

"Thy father drew his sword in the north, With his thousands strong he is marched forth. Thy brother hath armed himself in steel,

To revenge the wrongs thy children feel.

"But vain the sword, and vain the bowThey never can work war's overthrow ; The hermit's prayer and the widow's tear Alone can free the world from fear.

"For a tear is an intellectual thing,
And a sigh is the sword of an angel king;
And the bitter groan of a martyr's woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow."

The hand of vengeance found the bed
To which the purple tyrant fled;

The iron hand crushed the tyrant's head,
And became a tyrant in his stead.

THE TIGER.

(SECOND VERSION.)

IGER, Tiger, burning bright,

TIGER,

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

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In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand formed thy dread feet? 7

What the hammer, what the chain,

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did He smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

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