February 3.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told ; For then the eye interprets to the ear

The heavy motion that it doth behold,

When every part a part of woe doth bear, 'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear.

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

SHAKESPEARE, Rape of Lucrece.

February 4.

AND life's last failure in the sightless dust,
There in th' illusive grave's dark mystery
Is all thy uttermost, deep, deathless joy
Earth might not touch, but only dip her hand
In unavailing tearful rapture. Love,-
I feel thee in the Highest-crystal sea,
And throne of ageless glory, and the wing
Of Seraph, and pure Archangelic brow,
All blazoned with Thy splendour.

Oh! my Home,

My Life, my God; Beneath the shades, I come.

February 5.

THE PERFECT DAY.

DARK is the sky that overhangs my soul,
The mists are thick that through the valley roll,
But as I tread I cheer my heart and say,
When the Day breaks the shadows flee away.

D

Unholy phantoms from the deep arise,
And gather thro' the gloom before mine eyes;
But all shall vanish at the dawning ray-
When the Day breaks the shadows flee away.

I bear the lamp my Master gave to me,
Burning and shining must it ever be,
And I must tend it till the night decay-
Till the Day breaks and shadows flee away.

He maketh all things good unto His own,
For them in every darkness light is strewn ;
He will make good the gloom of this my day—
Till that Day break and shadows flee away.

He will be near me in the awful hour,

When the last Foe shall come in blackest power;
And He will hear me when at last I pray,
Let the Day break and shadows flee away.

In Him, my God, my glory, I will trust:
Awake and sing, O dweller in the dust!

Who shall come, will come, and will not delay-
His day will break, those shadows flee away! Amen.
S. J. STONE.

February 6.

ETERNITY.

ONE morning, all alone,

Out of his convent of gray stone,
Into the forest older, darker, grayer,
His lips moving as if in prayer,
His head sunken upon his breast
As in a dream of rest,

Walked the Monk Felix. All about
The broad sweet sunshine lay without,
Filling the summer air;

And within the woodlands as he trod,
The twilight was like the Truce of God
With worldly woe and care;

Under him lay the golden moss,

And above him the boughs of the hemlock trees

Waved, and made the sign of the Cross,
And whispered their Benedicites ;
And from the ground

Rose an odour sweet and fragrant
Of the wild flowers and the vagrant
Vines that wandered,

Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

These he heeded not, but pondered
On the volume in his hand,
A volume of St. Augustine,
Wherein he read of the great unseen
Splendours of God's great town
In the unknown land,

And with his eyes cast down

In humility, he said—

"I believe, O God,

What herein I have read,

But alas! I do not understand!"

And lo! he heard

The sudden singing of a bird,

A snowwhite bird, that from a cloud

Dropped down,

And among the branches brown

Sat singing

So sweet, and clear, and loud,

It seemed a thousand harpstrings ringing.

And the Monk Felix closed his book,
And long, long,

With rapturous look,

He listened to the song,

And hardly breathed or stirred,

Until he saw as in a vision,
The land Elysian,

And in the heavenly city heard
Angelic feet

Fall on the golden flagging of the street.
And he would fain

Have caught the wondrous bird,

But strove in vain ;

For it flew away, away,

Far over hill and dell,

And instead of its sweet singing,

He heard the convent bell
Suddenly in the silence ringing,
For the service of noonday.

And he retraced

His pathway homeward sadly and in haste.

In the convent there was a change!
He looked for each well-known face,
But the faces were new and strange;
New figures sat in the oaken stalls,
New voices chanted in the choir;
Yet the place was the same place,
The same dusky walls

Of cold, gray stone,

The same cloisters and belfry and spire.

A stranger and alone Among that brotherhood The Monk Felix stood. "Forty years,” said a Friar, "Have I been Prior

Of this convent in the wood,
But for that space

Never have I beheld thy face!"
The heart of the Monk Felix fell,

And he answered with submissive tone,
"This morning after the hour of prime,
I left my cell,

And wandered forth alone,

Listening all the time

To the melodious singing
Of a beautiful white bird,
Until I heard

The bells of the convent ringing
Noon from their noisy towers.
It was as if I dreamed;

For what to me had seemed
Moments only, had been hours!"
"Years!" said a voice close by.
It was an aged monk who spoke,
From a bench of oak

Fastened against the wall ;—
He was the oldest monk of all,
For a whole century

Had he been there,

Serving God in prayer,

The meekest and humblest of His creatures.

He remembered well the features

Of Felix, and he said,

Speaking distinct and slow,

One hundred years ago,

When I was a novice in this place,

There was here a monk, full of God's grace,

Who bore the name

Of Felix, and this man must be the same."

And straightway

They brought forth to the light of day