Heavier the cross the heartier prayer; The bruised herbs most fragrant are; If sky and wind were always fair The sailor would not watch the star; And David's psalms had ne'er been sung If grief his heart had never wrung. Heavier the cross the more aspiring; From vales we climb to mountain's crest; The pilgrim, of the desert tiring, Longs for the Canaan of his rest. The dove has here no rest in sight, And to the ark she wings her flight. Heavier the cross the easier dying; Death is a friendlier face to see; To life's decay one bids defying, From life's distress one then is free; The cross sublimely lifts our faith To him who triumphed over death. Thou Crucified! the cross I carry-- The longer may it dearer be; And, lest I faint while here I tarry, Implant thou such a heart in me That faith, hope, love, may flourish there Till for the cross my crown I wear. --Benjamin Schmolke. LA ROCHELLE A worthy man of Paris town Came to the bishop there: His face, o'erclouded with dismay, Betrayed a fixed despair. "Father," said he, "a sinner vile Am I, against my will: Each hour I humbly pray for faith, But am a doubter still. "Sure were I not despised of God, He would not leave me so To struggle thus in constant strife Against the deadly foe." The bishop to his sorrowing son Thus spoke a kind relief: "The King of France has castles twain; To each he sends a chief. "There's Montelhery, far inland, That stands in place secure; While La Rochelle, upon the coast, Doth sieges oft endure. "Now for these castles--both preserved-- First in his prince's love Shall Montelhery's chief be placed, Or La Rochelle's above?" "Oh! doubtless, sire," the sinner said, "That king will love the most The man whose task was hard to keep His castle on the coast!" "Son," said the bishop, "thou art right; Apply this reasoning well: My heart is Montelhery fort, And thine is La Rochelle!" IF THOU COULD'ST KNOW I think, if thou could'st know, O soul, that will complain, What lies concealed below Our burden and our pain-- How just our anguish brings Nearer those longed-for things We seek for now in vain-- I think thou would'st rejoice and not complain. I think, if thou could'st see, With thy dim mortal sight, How meanings, dark to thee, Are shadows hiding light; Truth's efforts crossed and vexed, Life's purpose all perplexed-- If thou could'st see them right, I think that they would seem all clear, and wise, and bright.