He heard a moan of sorrow. Well he knew The voice of Mary, she of Joseph’s house. His heart stood still; the Vision came again: That evening fair--the Boy--the distant hills-- The Shadow of the Cross upon the earth As He stood silent all absorbed in prayer-- The promise that himself should build a throne. “Aye,” so the Boy had said, “for it shall be Raised up on high that every man may see, Not Jews alone, but even ye of Rome; And men from Britain too, on farthest shore Of Rome’s great Empire: they shall see and know The King Who reigns upon that living throne; And, in the Islands of uncharted seas The King shall lifted be that all may know; And worlds still undiscovered shall bow down To do Him homage, yet shall hate His name. For homage goes with hate, and hate will be The measure of the homage that shall swell In pæans great around His royal throne.” A lightning flash! The rocks asunder rent, The tombs burst open and the dead arose. One moment Fidus saw the Crucified Ere darkness fell again around the Cross. But in that moment a new vision rose; He saw the hill rise high, and higher still, Till over all the mountains of the world It towering stood; and nations, worshipping Gazed on a mighty throne that bore a King! Blood red the jewels in His crown of thorns, With ermined pain that wrapped Him all about, Deep in His hands the orb and sceptre nails, Quite gone the Shadow of the primal sin And, on His brow, fulfilled the ancient pledge Of Earth’s Redemption. THE CHILD’S WISH GRANTED BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, How in the soft June days forever done You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; And, when I lifted you, soft came your cry,-- “Put me ’way up,--’way up in blue sky”? I laughed and said I could not,--set you down Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown Of bright hair gladdening me as your raced by, Another Father now, more strong than I, Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. CHARITY BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP Unarmed she goeth, yet her hands Strike deeper awe than steel-caparisoned bands, No fatal hurt of foe she fears,-- Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears. ’Gainst her thou canst not bar the door; Like air she enters; where none dared before. Even to the rich she can forgive Their regal selfishness,--and let them live! A SONG BEFORE GRIEF BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP Sorrow, my friend, When shall you come again? The wind is slow, and the bent willows send Their silvery motions wearily down the plain. The bird is dead That sang this morning through the summer rain!