And here is a mother who kneels, not in woe,
By the vault where her child was flung months ago;
And there is a strong man who peers with dry eyes
At the mouth of the gulph where his dead wife lies.
Till at last, to reward them, a faint blue fire,
Like the ghost of a soul, flickers here or there
At the gate of a vault, on the noisome air,
And the wretched throng has its low desire;
And with many a praise of the favouring saint,
And curses if any refuses to heed,
Full of low hopes and of sordid greed,
To the town they file backward, weary and faint.
And a few days hence, the great lottery
Of the sinful city declared will be,
And a number thus shewn to those sordid eyes,
May, the saints being willing, attain the prize.
Wherefore to Saint and Madonna be said,
All praise and laud, and the faithful dead.
*****
It was long, long ago, in far-off Judæa,
That they slew Him of old, whom these slay to-day;
They slew Him of old, in far-off Judæa,—
It is long, long ago; it was far, far away!
LIFE.
Like to a star, or to a fire,
Which ever brighter grown, or higher,
Doth shine forth fixed, or doth aspire;