BLANCO WHITE.

TO NIGHT.

MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first | And lo! creation widened in man's

Thee from report divine, and heard | Who could have thought such dark

Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent That to such countless orbs thou

And point to scenes of bliss that I only bow and say, My God, Thy

THE STANZA ADDED TO WALLER'S I'll tell thee something all thy heat

WHITNEY.

Or golden disk of moon that swings
Nearest of all the heavenly things,
Or world in awful distance small,
One Light doth feed and link them
all!

“I WILL ABIDE IN THINE HOUSE."
AMONG SO many, can He care?
Can special love be everywhere?
A myriad homes,—a myriad ways,—
And God's eye over every place.

Over; but in? The world is full;
A grand omnipotence must rule;
But is there life that doth abide
With mine own living, side by side?

So many, and so wide abroad:
Can any heart have all of God?
From the great spaces, vague and dim,
May one small household gather Him?

I asked: my soul bethought of this:-
In just that very place of his
Where He hath put and keepeth you,
God hath no other thing to do!

Where the embers flush and flicker
With their palpitating glow,
I see, fitfuller and quicker,
Heart-pulses come and go.

And here and there, with eager flame,
Upreaches earnestly to claim
A little tongue of light
A somewhat out of sight.

Else should the fiery impulse die.
I know, with instinct sure and high,
A somewhat must be there;
In ashes of despair.

Through the red tracery I discern
A parable sublime;
A solemn myth of souls that burn
In ordeals of time.

SUNLIGHT AND STARLIGHT.
Gop sets some souls in shade, alone;
Only in lives of happier ones
They have no daylight of their own:
God knows. Content thee with thy
They see the shine of distant suns.
night,

Thy greater heaven hath grander
light.

To-day is close; the hours are small;
Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all.

Lose the less joy that doth but blind;
To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres
Reach forth a larger bliss to find.
Rain raptures of a thousand years.

LARVE.

My little maiden of four years old

No myth, but a genuine child is she,

With her bronze-brown eyes and her curls of gold-
Came, quite in disgust, one day, to me.

Rubbing her shoulder with rosy palm,

As the loathsome touch seemed yet to thrill her,
She cried, "O mother! I found on my arm

A horrible, crawling caterpillar!"

And with mischievous smile she could scarcely smother,

Yet a glance in its daring, half awed, half shy,

She added, "While they were about it, mother

I wish they'd just finished the butterfly!"