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But speak in words of living power,-
They fall like drops of scalding rain
That plashed before the burning shower
Swept o'er the cities of the plain!

Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale,

Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring, And, smitten through their leprous mail, Strike right and left in hope to sting.

If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath,
Thy feet on earth, thy heart above,
Canst walk in peace thy kingly path,
Unchanged in trust, unchilled in love,-

Too kind for bitter words to grieve,
Too firm for clamor to dismay,
When Faith forbids thee to believe,
And Meekness calls to disobey,—

Ah, then beware of mortal pride!

The smiling pride that calmly scorns

Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed

In laboring on thy crown of thorns!

AVIS.

I MAY not rightly call thy name,

Alas! thy forehead never knew The kiss that happier children claim, Nor glistened with baptismal dew.

Daughter of want and wrong and woe,
I saw thee with thy sister-band,

Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow
By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand.

"Avis!"

With Saxon eye and cheek,

At once a woman and a child,

The saint uncrowned I came to seek

Drew near to greet us, — spoke, and smiled.

God gave that sweet sad smile she wore
All wrong to shame, all souls to win,
A heavenly sunbeam sent before

Her footsteps through a world of sin.

--

"And who is Avis?"- Hear the tale The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell,The story known through all the vale Where Avis and her sisters dwell.

With the lost children running wild,
Strayed from the hand of human care,

They find one little refuse child

Left helpless in its poisoned lair.

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How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate

The little suffering outcast's ail?

Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate

So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.

Ah, veil the living death from sight
That wounds our beauty-loving eye!
The children turn in selfish fright,
The white-lipped nurses hurry by.

Take her, dread Angel! Break in love This bruised reed and make it thine!

No voice descended from above,

But Avis answered, " She is mine."

The task that dainty menials spurn

The fair young girl has made her own; Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn The toils, the duties yet unknown.

So Love and Death in lingering strife
Stand face to face from day to day,

Still battling for the spoil of Life

While the slow seasons creep away.

Love conquers Death; the prize is won; See to her joyous bosom pressed

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Her task is done; no voice divine

Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame. No eye can see the aureole shine

That rings her brow with heavenly flame.

Yet what has holy page more sweet,
Or what had woman's love more fair,
When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet
With flowing eyes and streaming hair?

Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown,
The Angel of that earthly throng,

And let thine image live alone

To hallow this unstudied song!

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