Not mine the pinion strong To win the nobler song; I only cull and bring A hedge-row offering Of berry, flower, and brake, If haply some may take. VERSES. COMMISSIONED. "Do their errands; enter into the sacrifice with them; be a link yourself in the divine chain, and feel the joy and life of it."--ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY What can I do for thee, Beloved, Whose feet so little while ago Trod the same way-side dust with mine, And now up paths I do not know Speed, without sound or sign? What can I do? The perfect life All fresh and fair and beautiful Has opened its wide arms to thee; Thy cup is over-brimmed and full; Nothing remains for me. I used to do so many things,-- Love thee and chide thee and caress; Brush little straws from off thy way, Tempering with my poor tenderness The heat of thy short day. Not much, but very sweet to give; And it is grief of griefs to bear That all these ministries are o'er, And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere, Never can need me more:-- And I can do for thee but this (Working on blindly, knowing not If I may give thee pleasure so): Out of my own dull, burdened lot I can arise, and go To sadder lives and darker homes, A messenger, dear heart, from thee Who wast on earth a comforter, And say to those who welcome me, I am sent forth by her. Feeling the while how good it is To do thy errands thus, and think It may be, in the blue, far space, Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,-- A smile upon my face. And when the day's work ends with day, And star-eyed evening, stealing in, Waves a cool hand to flying noon, And restless, surging thoughts begin, Like sad bells out of tune, I'll pray: "Dear Lord, to whose great love Nor bound nor limit line is set, Give to my darling, I implore, Some new sweet joy not tasted yet, For I can give no more." And with the words my thoughts shall climb With following feet the heavenly stair Up which thy steps so lately sped, And, seeing thee so happy there, Come back half comforted. THE CRADLE TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. A little, rudely sculptured bed, With shadowing folds of marble lace, And quilt of marble, primly spread And folded round a baby's face. Smoothly the mimic coverlet, With royal blazonries bedight, Hangs, as by tender fingers set And straightened for the last good-night. And traced upon the pillowing stone A dent is seen, as if to bless The quiet sleep some grieving one Had leaned, and left a soft impress. It seems no more than yesterday Since the sad mother down the stair And down the long aisle stole away, And left her darling sleeping there. But dust upon the cradle lies, And those who prized the baby so, And laid her down to rest with sighs, Were turned to dust long years ago.