A THANKSGIVING.

I Thank Thee, boundless Giver,
  That the thoughts Thou givest flow
In sounds that like a river
  All through the darkness go. 
And though few should swell the pleasure,
  By sharing this my wine,
My heart will clasp its treasure,
  This secret gift of Thine.

My heart the joy inherits,
  And will oft be sung to rest;
And some wandering hoping spirits
  May listen and be blest. 
For the sound may break the hours
  In a dark and gloomy mood,
As the wind breaks up the bowers
  Of the brooding sunless wood.

For every sound of gladness
  Is a prophet-wind that tells
Of a summer without sadness,
  And a love without farewells;
And a heart that hath no ailing,
  And an eye that is not dim,
And a faith that without failing
  Shall be complete in Him.

And when my heart is mourning,
  The songs it lately gave,
Back to their fount returning,
  Make sweet the bitter wave;
And forth a new stream floweth,
  In sunshine winding fair;
And through the dark wood goeth
  Glad laughter on the air.

For the heart of man that waketh,
  Yet hath not ceased to dream,
Is the only fount that maketh
  The sweet and bitter stream. 
But the sweet will still be flowing
  When the bitter stream is dry,
And glad music only going
  On the breezes of the sky.

I thank Thee, boundless Giver,
  That the thoughts Thou givest flow
In sounds that like a river
  All through the darkness go. 
And though few should swell the pleasure
  By sharing this my wine,
My heart will clasp its treasure,
  This secret gift of Thine.

THE GOSPEL WOMEN.

I.

THE MOTHER MARY.

1.

Mary, to thee the heart was given
 For infant hand to hold,
Thus clasping, an eternal heaven,
  The great earth in its fold.

He seized the world with tender might,
  By making thee his own;
Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height
  Was to thyself unknown.

He came, all helpless, to thy power,
  For warmth, and love, and birth;
In thy embraces, every hour,
  He grew into the earth.

And thine the grief, O mother high,
  Which all thy sisters share,
Who keep the gate betwixt the sky
  And this our lower air;

And unshared sorrows, gathering slow;
  New thoughts within thy heart,
Which through thee like a sword will go,
  And make thee mourn apart.

For, if a woman bore a son
  That was of angel brood,
Who lifted wings ere day was done,
  And soared from where he stood;

Strange grief would fill each mother-moan,
  Wild longing, dim, and sore: 
“My child! my child! he is my own,
  And yet is mine no more!”