Be good to me! If all the world united Should bend its powers to gird my youth with pain, Still might I fly to thee, Dear, and be righted— But if thou wrong’st me, where shall I complain? I am the dove a random shot surprises, That from her flight she droppeth quivering, And in the deadly arrow recognizes A blood-wet feather—once in her own wing! In her poem called “The Rival” human nature speaks a direct word, particularly in the contradiction of the last stanza. The lines have the quality of speech rather than of print: This is the hardest of my fate: She’s better whom he doth prefer Than I am that he worshipped late, As well as so much prettier, So much more fortunate! He’ll not repent; oh, you will see, She’ll never give him cause to grieve! I dream that he comes back to me, Leaving her,—but he’ll never leave! Hopelessly sweet is she. So that if in my place she stood, She’d spare to curse him, she’d forgive! I loathe her, but I know she would— And so will I, God, as I live, Not she alone is good! The ethical inconsistency of the above stanza, “I loathe her,” and “Not she alone is good,” is so human and racy with suggestion of these paradoxical moods of ours, that the stanza, together with its companion lines, becomes a leaf torn from the book of life. In its spiritual quality Miss Hall’s work shows, perhaps, its finest distinction: brave, strong, acquiescent, inducing in one a nobler mood,—such is the spirit of the volume. Its philosophy is free from didacticism or moralizing; indeed, it should scarcely be called philosophy, but rather the personal record of experiences touching the inner life,—phases of feeling interpreted in their spiritual import. These lines express the mood: Then lead me, Friend. Here is my hand, Not in dumb resignation lent Because Thee one cannot withstand— In love, Lord, with complete consent. * * * * * Lead. If we come to the cliff’s crest, And I hear deep below—O deep!— The torrent’s roar, and “Leap!” Thou say’st, I will not question—I will leap. The last stanza, in its vivid illustrative quality, is an admirable expression of spiritual assurance. Another brief lyric rings with the true note of valor, declaring the eternal potency of hope, and one’s obligation to pass on his unspent faith, though falling by the way: Could I not be the pilgrim To reach my saint’s abode, I would make myself the road To lead some other pilgrim Where my soul’s treasure glowed. Could not I in the eager van Be the stalwart pioneer Who points where the way is clear, I would be the man who sinks in the swamp, And cries to the rest, “Not here!” From an Eastern Apologue Miss Hall has drawn a charming illustration of the power of influence and association: