Bertha will do truer service
To her kind than I have done,
So I leave to her young spirit
The long Work I have begun. 
Well! the threads are tangled, broken,
And the colours do not blend,
She will bend her earnest striving
Both to finish and amend: 
And, when it is all completed,
Strong with care and rich with skill,
Just because my hands began it,
She will love it better still.

Ruth shall have my dearest token,
The one link I dread to break,
The one duty that I live for,
She, when I am gone, will take. 
Sacred is the trust I leave her,
Needing patience, prayer, and tears;
I have striven to fulfil it,
As she knows—­these many years. 
Sometimes hopeless, faint, and weary
Yet a blessing shall remain
With the task, and Ruth will prize it
For my many hours of pain.

What must I leave you, my Alice? 
Nothing, Love, to do or bear,
Nothing that can dim your blue eyes
With the slightest cloud of care. 
I will leave my heart to love you,
With the tender faith of old;
Still to comfort, warm, and light you,
Should your life grow dark or cold. 
No one else, my child, can claim it;
Though you find old scars of pain,
They were only wounds, my darling,
There is not, I trust, one stain.

Are my gifts indeed so worthless
Now the slender sum is told? 
Well, I know not:  years may bless them
With a nobler price than gold. 
Am I poor? ah no, most wealthy,
Not in these poor gifts you take,
But in the true hearts that tell me
You will keep them for my sake.

VERSE:  KING AND SLAVE

If in my soul, dear,
An omen should dwell,
Bidding me pause, ere
I love thee too well;
If the whole circle,
Of noble and wise,
With stern forebodings,
Between us should rise.

I will tell them, dear,
That Love reigns—­a King,
Where storms cannot reach him,
And words cannot sting;
He counts it dishonour
His faith to recall;
He trusts;—­and for ever
He gives—­and gives all!

I will tell thee, dear,
That Love is—­a Slave,
Who dreads thought of freedom,
As life dreads the grave;
And if doubt or peril
Of change there may be,
Such fear would but drive him
Still nearer to thee!

VERSE:  A CHANT

“Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.”

I.

Who is the Angel that cometh? 
Life! 
Let us not question what he brings,
Peace or Strife,
Under the shade of his mighty wings,
One by one,
Are his secrets told;
One by one,
Lit by the rays of each morning sun,
Shall a new flower its petals unfold,
With the mystery hid in its heart of gold. 
We will arise and go forth to greet him,
Singly, gladly, with one accord;—­
“Blessed is he that cometh
In the name of the Lord!”