Her mother sleeps on the hill out there, --_Black is the night and cold_,-- She is free from care, she is happier there, Beneath the warm brown mould. And I've sometimes hoped they may have met, And the end of the tale be told. _Ah ... where is our lamb-- Our one ewe lamb-- That strayed from the fold_? Was that a branch that shed its load? --_Black is the night and cold_,-- Or--was it a footstep in the snow-- A timid footstep--halting, slow? Ah me! I am getting old! Is that a tapping--soft and low? Can it be ... I thought I heard ... but no, 'Twas only a branch that shed its snow,-- God's truth! I am getting old! _For I thought ... maybe It was my lamb Come home again to the fold_. Dear Lord! a hand at the frozen pane! --_White on the night's black cold_-- O my lamb! my lamb! are you come again? My dear lost lamb, are you come again? Are you come again to the fold? It is!... It is!... Now I thank Thee, Lord, For Thy Mercies manifold! _She is come again! She is home again! My lamb that strayed from the fold_! BIDE A WEE! Though the times be dark and dreary, Though the way be long, Keep your spirits bright and cheery,-- --"Bide a wee, and dinna weary!" Is a heartsome song. THE WORD THAT WAS LEFT UNSAID "A red rose for my helmet, And a word before we part! The rose shall be my oriflamme The word shall fill my heart." _Heart, Heart, Heart of my heart-- Just a look, just a word and a look! A look or a sign that my love shall divine And a word for my hungering heart_! She toyed with his love and her roses; Was it mischief or mischance?-- She dropped him a rose--'twas a white one, And he lifted it on his lance. _Heart, Heart, Heart of my heart! Is it thus--is it thus we part? With never a look, and never a sign, Nor a word for my hungering heart_! She sought him among the dying, She found him among the dead; And the rose was still in his helmet. But his life had stained it red. _Heart, Heart, Heart of my heart! Now my heart within me is dead. And alack for the look! And alas for the sign! And the word that was left unsaid_! DON'T WORRY Just do your best, And leave the rest To Him who gave you Life,-- And Zeal for Labour,-- And the Joy of Strife,-- And Zest of Love,-- And all that lifts your soul above The lower things. Life's truest harvest is in what we _would_, And strive our best for, Not most in what we _could_. The things we count supreme Stand, haply, not so high In God's esteem As _How_ and _Why_. All-Seeing Sight Cleaves through the husk of things, Right to the Roots and Springs,-- Sees all things whole, And measures less the body than the soul. All-Righteous Right Will weigh men's motives, Not their deeds alone. End and Beginning unto Him are one; And _would_ for _could_ shall oft, perchance, atone.