THE BLANK.

Soon Autumn, with overflowing measure,
Will hang upon each bending tree
The clusters of its golden treasure,

The life of earth's vast family.
Alas, in one disastrous hour,

From my green vine has fallen the flower;
A blighted hue its branches wear,
My autumn tree looks cold and bare.

And Winter, with its blast wide-roaming,
In cloud and darkness shall come forth;
Beneath its grave of snow entombing

The various verdure of the earth.
But my sweet blossom, safely laid,
Beneath yon cloister's solemn shade,
In gentle undisturbed repose,

Shall sleep in winter's grave of snows.

215

CHOOSE WELL.

O quam dulce, quam jucundum
Erit tunc odisse mundum,

Et quam triste, quam amarum
Mundum habuisse carum.-OLD HYMN.

O DEAD in sin!

Wilt thou still choose to die

The death of deaths eternally?

Dost thou not feel the gloom
Of the eternal tomb?

O dead to life!

Wilt thou the life from heaven
Reject the life so freely given;
Wilt thou choose sin and tears
Through everlasting years?

O dead to Christ! ·

Wilt thou despise the love

Of Him who stooped from joy above,
To shame on earth for thee,

That he might set thee free?

T WAS I THAT DID IT.

217

O dead to God!

Wilt thou not seek his face?

Wilt thou not turn and own the grace?

Wilt thou not take the heaven,

So freely to thee given?

'TWAS I THAT DID IT.

I SEE the crowd in Pilate's hall,
I mark their wrathful mien;
Their shouts of "crucify" appall,
With blasphemy between.

And of that shouting multitude
I feel that I am one;

And in that din of voices rude,

I recognise my own.

I see the scourges tear his back,

I see the piercing crown,

And of that crowd who smote and mock,

I feel that I am one,

218

'T WAS I THAT DID 11.

Around yon cross, the throng I see,
Mocking the sufferer's groan,

Yet still my voice it seems to be,—
As if I mocked alone.

'Twas I that shed the sacred blood,
I nailed him to the tree,

I crucified the Christ of God,
I joined the mockery.

Yet not the less that blood avails,

To cleanse away my sin,

And not the less that cross prevails

To give me peace within.

THE USEFUL LIFE.

Ψυχή μου, ψυχή μου,

Αναστα, τὶ καθεύδεις.

OLD GREEK HYMN.

Go labor on; spend, and be spent,-
Thy joy to do the Father's will;

It is the way the Master went,

Should not the servant tread it still?

Go labor on; 'tis not for nought;

Thy earthly loss is heavenly gain ; Men heed thee, love thee, praise thee not; The Master praises,-what are men?

Go labor on; enough, while here,
If He shall praise thee, if he deign
Thy willing heart to mark and cheer;

No toil for Him shall be in vain.