ling the sorrows I had,
Wisdom came with you; the old sad history
Glowed; and I knew in my heart why the sad
And outcast Lord grew suddenly glad
As the children thronged to crown Him with flowers,
When their cry was voiced by some tiny lad,
"This is no Stranger: we name Him ours!"

L'ENVOI.

So do I thank you; and if some day
You in your gained Paradisal bowers
Hear me knocking, be bold to pray,
"This is no stranger: we claim him ours!"

_IN THE MIDST OF THEM_

"_Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look on me, a little child.
Pity my simplicity
And suffer me to come to Thee_."

Now prevails a creed which tells
Us to seek no miracles.
Reason by discovered lore
Reigns where Faith was found before.
God, Who set our world aspin,
Now is weary of its din;
He, Who for our fathers' sake
Conjured lightning and earthquake,
Vanquished sorrow, sickness, death,
Deems we are not worth the Breath
That blessed the trusting prophet's rod
When Moses called upon his God.
How dare _we_ expect Him give
Miracles to help us live?

Yet I build on Him Who saith,
"Move the mountains with your faith"--
Doubt the lips that falter, wan,
"The age of miracles is gone!"
I have learned to read the grim
Testimony unto Him
Printed with starvation's hand
On every hove! through the land;
I have swung the crazy door
To find huddled on a floor
Rat-gnawed and riddled, with never a clout
To keep the eager winter out,
Some six or seven of our kind
Shivering beneath the wind,
Foodless, fireless, hungry-eyed,
Crouched round one who just had died,
Hopeless that the dawn would bring
Friendly aid and comforting.

And after prayer for the parted soul,
They have thanked the slender dole,
And spoken of hope of days to come,
And have forgotten their martyrdom.
The anguished grief of motherhood
Has firmly whispered "God is good
And can in His Eternity
Repay this present loss"; till I
Have almost turned my head to see
If Christ has not come in with me!

_Gentle Jesus, mild and meek,
These the simple words I speak
Are the faith Thou gavest me;
Suffer me to come to Thee!_

_SIC TRANSIT_

They camped in the meadow at sunrise,
And their crests gleamed bright in the sun,
And the breeze that blew sighed soft, for it knew
Their fate e'er the day was done.
They lay in the meadow at sunset,
As the sky in anger blushed red;
For the host of the dawn lay still on the lawn