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THE HOLY NAME.

THE HOLY NAME.

'Tis said when pious Moslems walk abroad,
If on the path they spy a floating bit
Of paper, reverently they turn aside

And shun the scrap, nor set a foot on it,
Lest haply thereupon the awful name

Of mighty Allah should by chance be writ.

We smile at the vain dread; but blind and dull The soul that only smiles, and cannot see

A thought of perfect beauty folded in

The zealot's reverent fear, as in some free And flaunting flower-cup may be hived and held One drop of precious honey for the bee.

Small wind-blown things there are, which any day
Float by in air or on our pathway lie,
Swift-winged moments speeding on their way;
Brief opportunities, which we pass by
Heedless and smiling, little subtle threads
Of influence-intimations soft and sly.

Careless we tread them down, as pressing on,
Our
eager inconsiderate feet we set

On the unvalued treasures where they lie.

THE IDEAL IS THE REAL.

We are too blind to prize or to regret, Too dull to recognize the mystic name

Graven upon

them as on an amulet.

Ah! dears, let us no longer do this thing,
And thus the sweeter life lose and let fall;
But with anointed eyes and reverent feet
Pass on our way, noting and prizing all,
Knowing that God's great token-sign is set
Not on the large things only, but the small.

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SUSAN COOLIDGE.

THE IDEAL IS THE REAL.

MEN take the pure ideals of their souls,
And lock them fast away,

And never dream that things so beautiful
Are fit for every day.

So, counterfeits pass current in their lives,

And stones they give for bread; And starvingly and fearingly they walk Through life among the dead;

Though never yet was pure ideal

Too fair for them to make their real.

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THE IDEAL IS THE REAL.

The thoughts of beauty dawning on the soul
Are glorious Heaven-gleams,

And God's eternal truth lies folded deep

In all man's lofty dreams!

'Twas first in Thought's clear world that Kepler

saw

What ties the planets bound,

And through long years he searched the spheres, and there

The answering law he found!

Men said he sought a wild ideal,

The stars made answer, "It is real."

Paul, Luther, Howard, all the crowned ones,
Who starlike gleam through time,

Lived boldly out before the clear-eyed sun,
Their inmost thought sublime.

These truths, to them more beautiful than day,
They knew would quicken men,

And deeds at which the blinded gazers sneered,
They dared to practice then;

Till those who mocked their young ideal,

In meekness owned it was the real.

Thine early dreams, which came in "shapes of light,"

Came bearing prophecy—

JUST SIXTY-TWO.

Commissioned sweetly to unfold

Thy possible to thee.

Fear not to build thine eyrie in the heights,
Bright with celestial day;

And trust thyself unto thine inmost soul,
In simple faith alway.

And God will make divinely real

The highest forms of thine ideal.

ANN PRESTON.

"JUST SIXTY-TWO."

JUST sixty-two! Then trim thy light,
And get thy jewels all re-set;

'Tis past meridian, but bright,

And lacks one hour to sunset yet.

At sixty-two

Be strong and true;

Clear off thy rust, and shine anew.

'Tis yet high time; thy staff resume,

And fight fresh battles for the truth; For what is age but youth's full bloom,— A riper, more transcendant youth?

A wedge of gold

Is never old;

Streams broader grow as downward rolled.

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BLESSEDNESS.

At sixty-two is life begun;

At seventy-three begin once more;
Fly swifter as you near the sun,

And brighter shine at eighty-four;
At ninety-five,

Should'st thou arrive,

Still wait on God, and work and thrive.

Keep thy locks wet with morning dew,
And freely let thy graces flow;
For life well spent is ever new,

And years anointed younger grow.
So work anew;

Be young for aye;

From sunset breaking into day.

BLESSEDNESS.

It is not happiness I seek,
Its name I hardly dare to speak;
It is not made for man or earth,
And Heaven alone can give it birth.