So from the heights of Will
Life's parting stream descends,

And, as a moment turns its slender rill,

Each widening torrent bends,

From the same cradle's side,

From the same mother's knee, One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the Peaceful Sea!

ROBINSON OF LEYDEN.

He sleeps not here; in hope and prayer
His wandering flock had gone before,
But he, the shepherd, might not share
Their sorrows on the wintry shore.

Before the Speedwell's anchor swung,
Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread,
While round his feet the Pilgrims clung,
The pastor spake, and thus he said:

"Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! God calls you hence from over sea; Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer,

Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee.

"Ye

go

to bear the saving word

To tribes unnamed and shores untrod: Heed well the lessons ye have heard

From those old teachers taught of God.

"Yet think not unto them was lent
All light for all the coming days,
And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent
In making straight the ancient ways:

"The living fountain overflows

For every flock, for every lamb,
Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose
With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam."

He spake with lingering, long embrace, With tears of love and partings fond, They floated down the creeping Maas, Along the isle of Ysselmond.

They passed the frowning towers of Briel, The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand,

And grated soon with lifting keel

The sullen shores of Fatherland.

No home for these!

too well they knew

The mitred king behind the throne; The sails were set, the pennons flew,

And westward ho! for worlds unknown.

- And these were they who gave us birth, The Pilgrims of the sunset wave,

Who won for us this virgin earth,

And freedom with the soil they gave.

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, –

In alien earth the exiles lie,

Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, His words our noblest battle-cry!

Still cry them, and the world shall hear,
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea!

Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer,

Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee!

SAINT ANTHONY THE REFORMER.

HIS TEMPTATION.

No fear lest praise should make us proud!
We know how cheaply that is won;

The idle homage of the crowd

Is proof of tasks as idly done.

A surface-smile may pay the toil

That follows still the conquering Right,

With soft, white hands to dress the spoil
That sun-browned valor clutched in fight.

Sing the sweet song of other days,
Serenely placid, safely true,

And o'er the present's parching ways

Thy verse distils like evening dew.