FOR A NOVICE. O King majestic, strong! e’en from my earliest days, I well may call myself Thy work of grace alone; Thy love to pay with love, Thy care to tell with praise, I come with joy to-day, before Thy altar-throne. Jesu, my Best-Beloved! what privilege is this? For nothingness am I. What have I done for Thee? Yet, clad in virginal white, it is to-day my bliss To follow Thee, the Lamb, in heavenly ecstasy. I know, alas, too well, that I am less than naught, Weakness itself, and poor; devoid of virtues great And yet Thou knowest well that I have always sought With longing heart, Thyself; on Thee alone I wait When my young heart first felt the fire of love burn bright, Thou cam’st, O Christ! that fire to Thee alone to take; Naught could content my soul but Thee, my one Delight; — The Infinite alone my burning thirst could slake. Like some wee lamb afar from its safe sheltering fold, Gayly I played, and nothing knew of dangers drear. Shepherdess, Queen of Heaven! thy mother-love untold, Thy mother-watchfulness, drew me thy heart anear. So, playing on the brink of pitfalls dread and deep, Afar I saw the hill of Carmel beckon me; And I divined that they who climb its summits steep, Shall learn of love, to fly to heaven’s eternity. An angel’s purity, dear Lord, attracts Thy heart, An angel white as snow, in heaven’s celestial mirth. Dost thou not also love a lily kept apart For Thee, from mire and taint; as white as snow, on earth? If he, within Thy sight, exults all dazzling pure, 44 In brilliant stainless robes, whose lustre blinds our gaze, Hast Thou not kept my robe as safe, as white, as sure? My virgin heart has been the treasure of my days. A WITHERED ROSE.

Jesus, when Thou didst leave Thy Mother’s fond embrace, Let go her hand; And first, on our hard earth, Thy little foot didst place, And trembling stand; Within Thy pathway, then fresh rose-leaves would I spread, — Their Maker’s dower, — That so Thy tiny feet might very softly tread Upon a flower. These scattered rose-leaves form true image of a soul, O Child most dear! That longs to immolate itself, complete and whole, Each moment here. On Thy blest altars, Lord, fresh roses fain would shine, Radiant, near Thee; They gladly give themselves. Another dream is mine, — To fade for Thee! How gaily decks Thy feasts, dear Child, a rose newblown, Fragrant and fair! But withered roses are forgot, — the wild winds’ own, — Cast anywhere. Their scattered leaves seek now no earthly joy or pelf; For self, no gain. Ah, little Jesus! so, I give Thee all! Of self, Let naught remain. These roses trampled lie beneath the passer’s tread, Unmarked, unknown. I comprehend their lot; — these leaves, though pale and dead, Are still Thine own. For Thee they die; as I my time, my life, my all Have spent for Thee. Men think a fading rose am I, whose leaves must fall 45 At death’s decree. For Thee I die, for Thee, Jesus, Thou Fairest Fair! — Joy beyond telling! — Thus, fading, would I prove my love beyond compare, All bliss excelling. Beneath Thy feet, Thy way to smooth, through life’s long night, My heart would lie; And softening Thy hard path up Calvary’s awful height, I thus would die. May, 1897