on pilgrimage;
By suffering from age to age
God seals the vassals of His Will.

Her Burden is upholding her;
And, guided by the Holy Dove,
She sees the victory of Love
Beyond the Cross and Sepulchre.

To shield her, Joseph stands: his care
The shadow of God's Providence.
How fragrant is the frankincense
Of their uninterrupted prayer!

Through ever-open gates they press,
A new and living way they tread,
So gain they the true 'House of Bread,'
A garden for a wilderness.

A flight it seems to us; to them
It is a going forth to win
The world from Satan and from sin,
And build the New Jerusalem.

Lord Christ! for every seeking soul
Thou art Thyself the Door, the Way;
All, all shall find one coming day
Thy Heart their everlasting goal!

LOCH LEVEN: 1884.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] _See_ Note B, page 71.

_S. JOSEPH._

A cloistered garden was the place
Where Mary grew, God's perfect flower;
One, only one, discerned her grace,
And visited her bower.

God's choice was his; by love made strong
To guard the Mother of the King;
No heart, save hers, had e'er a song
So sweet as his to sing.

Yet lives there on the sacred page
No record of a word from him;
God's Ark he guards, a silent sage,
Pure as the Cherubim.

But sweeter than the sweetest word
Recorded of the wise and good,
His silence is a music heard
On high, and understood.

Blessed are all who take their part
Amid the carol-singing throng;
Thrice blest the meditative heart
Whose silence is a song.

BALLACHULISH: 1884.

A CRADLE SONG.

Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters,
May the music of your song
Silence all the dark forebodings
That have plagued the world too long;
He who made your voices tuneful
Comes to right the wrong.

Warble on, ye feathered songsters,
Lift your praises loud and high,
Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,
In the grove and in the sky
Make your music, shame our dumbness,
Till we make reply.

Children's laughter is a music
Flowing from a hidden spring,
Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,
Well is worth discovering;
Slowly dies the heart that knows not
How to laugh and sing.

Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer
Is the Heart of God Most High;
All sweet voices are the echoes
That in varied tones reply
To tha