Bring forth your riches,—let them go,
Nor mourn the lost control;
For if ye hoard them, surely so
Their rust will reach your soul.
Cast in your coins; for God delights
When from wide hands they fall;
But here is one who brings two mites,
“And yet gives more than all.”
She heard not, she, the mighty praise;
Went home to care and need:
Perchance the knowledge still delays,
And yet she has the meed.
THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM.
They give Him freely all they can,
They give Him clothes and food;
In this rejoicing, that the Man
Is not ashamed they should.
Enough He labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
The sole return He doth require
Is strength to toil again.
And this, embalmed in truth, they bring,
By love received as such;
Their little, by his welcoming,
Transformed into much.
Strangely thy whispered message ran,
Almost in form behest!
Why came in dreams the low-born man
To part thee from thy rest?
It may be that some spirit fair,
Who knew not what must be,
Fled in the anguish of his care
For help for him to thee.
But rather would I think thee great;
That rumours upward went,
And pierced the palisades of state
In which thy rank was pent;
And that a Roman matron thou,
Too noble for thy spouse,
The far-heard grandeur must allow,
And sit with pondering brows.
And so thy maidens’ gathered tale
For thee with wonder teems;
Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale
Returneth in thy dreams.
And thou hast suffered for his sake
Sad visions all the night:
One day thou wilt, then first awake,
Rejoice in his dear light.
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA.
The empty pitcher to the pool
She bore in listless mood:
In haste she turned; the pitcher full
Beside the water stood.
To her was heard the age’s prayer:
He sat upon the brink;
Weary beside the waters fair,
And yet He could not drink.
He begged her help. The woman’s hand
Was ready to reply;
From out the old well of the land
She drew Him plenteously.
He spake as never man before;
She stands with open ears;
He spoke of holy days in store,
Laid bare the vanished years.
She cannot grapple with her heart,
Till, in the city’s bound,
She cries, to ease the joy-born smart,
“I have the Master found.”
Her life before was strange and sad;
Its tale a dreary sound:
Ah! let it go—or good or bad,
She has the Master found.