Art Thou the way, Lord? Then the way is sweet, No matter if it puzzle or distress, Though winds may scourge, or blinding suns may beat, The perfect rest shall round our weariness, Cool dews shall heal the fevered pulse of day; We shall find home at last through thee, the way.
HER heart was like a generous fire, Round which a hundred souls could sit And warm them in the unstinted blaze. Those who held nearest place to it Had cheer and comfort all their days; Those who, perforce, were further still Yet felt her radiance melt their chill, Their darkness lightened by her rays.
Her heart was like a generous fire! The trivial dross of thought and mind Shrivelled when brought too near its heat, The hidden gold was caught, refined; A subtle effluence keen and sweet From every creature drew its best; Gave inspiration, strength, and rest, Quickened the moral pulse’s beat.
Her heart was like a generous fire! Circled by smaller fires in ring, Each lit by her infectious spark To send forth warmth and comforting Into hard paths and by-ways dark. The little fires, they still burn on; But the great kindling flame is gone, Caught up past our imagining.
Her heart was like a generous fire! How changed the summer scenes, how chill, How coldly do the mornings break, Since that great heart is quenched and still, Which kept so many hearts awake! O Lord the Light! shine Thou instead, Quicken and trim the fires she fed, And make them burn for her dear sake.
ONCE a poor soul, reft from a dull, hard lot (Which yet was dear, as even dull life may be), Found herself bodiless in that dread spot Which mortals know as “Hell” and fearfully Name in a whisper, while the Saints name not.
“I was not wicked; they have told God lies To make him send me here,” she moaned in pain, Then suddenly her wan, reproachful eyes, Raised to the Pity never sought in vain, Beheld a hovering shape in aureoled guise.
It was Saint Peter, guardian of the gate, The shining gate where blessed ones go in. “Why thus,” demanded he, “bewail your fate? What good deed did you in your life to win The right to Heaven? Speak ere it be too late!”
Then the poor soul,—all downcast and dismayed, Scanning the saint’s face and his austere air, In vain reviewed her life, in vain essayed To think of aught accomplished which might bear Heaven’s scrutiny. At length she answer made.