11 MARCH 1893, Page 17

POETRY.

WAITING.

As those who, on some lonely mountain-height, Watching through all the weary hours of night, Await the pale rose of the morning-light, I wait for thee.

As one who, waking on a bed of pain, And helpless in his agony, is fain To wait the sweet return of sleep again, I wait for thee.

As he who, in some vast cathedral, dim With shadows, silent waits, on bended limb, The music of the Eucharistic hymn, I wait for thee.

As deaf men crave for song, and blind for sight, As weary sons of toil long for the night, And as the fettered spirit longs for flight, I long for thee. ARTHUR. T. FROGOATT,