The city of Suffering is Heaven’s wide door For victims its horrors enthrall; E’en martyrs have sung when the fagots blazed high— So ever He heareth our call; And those who, with fellow-love prompting their deeds, Fought there, with the mounting flame fiends, Have wrought in the plan, for ennobling the world, With God’s own, mysterious means. In the city of Suffering souls break the bonds That indolent selfishness forged in the womb, And lives, that were dwarfed by their mammon-cut groove, Find growth in Love’s labor, and sunshine in gloom. When raven-winged Sorrow sweeps over the land, An angel attends where its shadow may fall, And, out from its darkness, brings heavenly light, And faith, in the Wisdom, that’s over us all. [1] “There was a puff—a muffled roar, and the tower was literally rent by an explosion. A moment later the flames burst out thro’ every rent and fissure, and the men, away up there, in mid air, fighting the fire, were cut off from the world below, by an outpour of smoke and flame, soon to become a mighty conflagration.” Heliotrope. There’s a charm in its fragrance bewitchingly sweet— A something that binds with a magical spell; E’en silence, thro’ this, to the heart can repeat The message that’s sent in its purple fringed cell. ’Tis an odorous breath, from the heavenly heights— An angel hand, beckoning to the bloom scented fields, Where the soul in its freedom may taste the delights That the garden of Paradise yields. Like childhood’s sweet dreams of the holy and true, That float thro’ Life’s dusk in the ether of Thought, Or morn’s rosy blush, melting into the blue, With tint of the beryl and amethyst caught. ’Tis an exquisite messenger, given the heart, That winsomely speaks to the spirit, alone, And whatever sentiment sent, will impart— Will tell it so sweetly, in language its own. When souls must needs pass thro’ Grief’s wordless abyss, Then heart unto heart, through it, uttereth speech— The sympathy, seeking expression through this, Is told with a tenderness words never reach. If you’ve aught that’s too sacred for words to express, Too tender to breathe in a wish or a hope, ’Twill be fittingly draped in the delicate dress, And borne in the perfume of HELIOTROPE. Constancy. The Fates have decreed thou canst never be mine, Yet, constant, my soul turneth ever to thine With love that outreaches Time’s cruel decree. Too holy the passion with others to name— Thoughts deepest and purest feed ever the flame, That burns on the altar, kept sacred to thee. As ocean in silence embosoms the light That beams from the gems in the crown of the night, Yet dimming its purity never, So thou, in my bosom a presence shalt be, As stars shining down in the depths of the sea— Unsullied thy brightness forever.