Laden with harvest spoils they entered In at the golden gate of their rest; Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master, Found their places among the blest. Happy be they who strove to help me, Failing ever in spite of their aid! Fain would their love have borne me onward, But I was unready, and sore afraid. Now I know my task will never be finished, And when the Master calleth my name, The Voice will find me still at my labor, Weeping beside it in weary shame. With empty hands I shall rise to meet Him, And when He looks for the fruits of years, Nothing have I to lay before Him But broken efforts and bitter tears. Yet when He calls I fain would hasten-- Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone; And I am as weary as though I carried A burthen of beautiful work well done. I will fold my empty hands on my bosom, Meekly thus in the shape of His Cross; And the Lord, Who made them frail and feeble, Maybe will pity their strife and loss. It might have been expected that so skilful an artist in beautiful words would be sure occasionally to find the classic sonnet form the most fitting vehicle for some rounded and stately thought. About half a dozen sonnets are strewn over these pages, all cast in the true Petrarchan mould, and all very properly bearing names of their own, like any other form of verse, instead of being labelled promiscuously as "sonnets." The following is called "Love." What a sublime ideal, only to be realized in human love when in its self-denying sacredness it approaches the divine! True love is that which never can be lost: Though cast away, alone and ownerless, Like a strayed child, that wandering, misses most When night comes down its mother's last caress; True love dies not when banished and forgot, But, solitary, barters still with Heaven The scanty share of joy cast in its lot For joys to the beloved freely given. Love, smiling, stands afar to watch and see Each blessing it has bought, like angel's kiss, Fall on the loved one's face, who ne'er may know At what strange cost thus, overflowingly, His cup is filled, or how its depth of bliss Doth give the measure of another's woe. As this happens to be the solitary one among Miss Mulholland's sonnets, which in the arrangement of the quatrains varies slightly from the most orthodox tradition of this pharisee of song, I will give another specimen, prettily named "Among the Boughs." High on a gnarled and mossy forest bough, Dreaming, I hang between the earth and sky, The golden moon through leafy mystery Gazing aslant at me with glowing brow. And since all living creatures slumber now, O nightingale, save only thou and I, Tell me the secret of thine ecstacy, That none may know save only I and thou.