We pray together at the kirk,
       For mercy, mercy, solely—­
     Hands weary with the evil work,
       We lift them to the Holy! 
     The corpse is calm below our knee—­
       Its spirit bright before Thee—­
     Between them, worse than either, we
       Without the rest of glory! 
               Be pitiful, O God!

     And soon all vision waxeth dull—­
       Men whisper, “He is dying;”
     We cry no more, “Be pitiful!”—­
       We have no strength for crying: 
     No strength, no need!  Then, Soul of mine,
       Look up and triumph rather—­
     Lo! in the depth of God’s Divine,
       The Son adjures the Father—­
               BE PITIFUL, O GOD!

     ROMANCE OF THE SWAN’S NEST

        Little Ellie sits alone
     ’Mid the beeches of a meadow,
        By a stream-side on the grass;
        And the trees are showering down
     Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
        On her shining hair and face.

        She has thrown her bonnet by;
     And her feet she has been dipping
        In the shallow water’s flow—­
        Now she holds them nakedly
     In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
        While she rocketh to and fro.

        Little Ellie sits alone,
     And the smile she softly uses
        Fills the silence like a speech;
        While she thinks what shall be done,
     And the sweetest pleasure chooses,
        For her future within reach.

        Little Ellie in her smile
     Chooseth—­“I will have a lover,
        Riding on a steed of steeds! 
        He shall love me without guile;
     And to him I will discover
        That swan’s nest among the reeds.

        “And the steed shall be red-roan. 
     And the lover shall be noble,
        With an eye that takes the breath. 
        And the lute he plays upon
     Shall strike ladies into trouble,
        As his sword strikes men to death.

        “And the steed it shall be shod
     All in silver, housed in azure,
        And the mane shall swim the wind: 
        And the hoofs along the sod
     Shall flash onward and keep measure,
        Till the shepherds look behind.

        “But my lover will not prize
     All the glory that he rides in,
        When he gazes in my face. 
        He will say, ’O Love, thine eyes
     Build the shrine my soul abides in;
        And I kneel here for thy grace.’

        “Then, ay, then—­he shall kneel low,
     With the red-roan steed anear him,
        Which shall seem to understand—­
        Till I answer, ’Rise and go! 
     For the world must love and fear him
        Whom I gift with heart and hand.’

        “Then he will arise so pale,
     I shall feel my own lips tremble
        With a yes I must not say—­
        Nathless maiden-brave, ‘Fare well,’
     I will utter, and dissemble—­
        ‘Light to-morrow with to-day.’