POETRY.

TAIT AND FRASER.

PEACE and goodwill to all who love The message of goodwill and peace, Eternal watchword from above Till all things un-eternal cease, With long persistence sent again, Year after year, to stubborn men,— Year after year, some hearts are found Open as sunlight to the sound.

Still patient, loving, straining still After a hoped-for brotherhood, Determined in the fight with Ill, Persuaded in the strength of Good,—

As manly as the first who trod In living presence of their God, The new apostles bravely raise Their altars on the olden ways.

It must be—few enough. 'Twas said Even from the first 'twas so to be, As the rare beacons raise their head Out of the vague, self-fretting sea ; The easiest message ever sent To men that pray, and are content, Yields more than all to all that yearn, And asks—forbearance—in return.

The Advent-bells rang out the life Of one who gave it for his Lord, If ever spirit strange to strife Thus honoured best, and best adored ; The Advent,—as with twilight dim Fore-heralding the dawn of Him, Who peasant-born in nook unknown, A world-wide season names his own,—

The Advent,—prophetlike and grand, As John the Baptist came of old, To stir the waters with his hand, Ere all the ocean burst in gold,— Never, since first the Christ was young, To truer note his music sung, Than when upon her pinions sped • Christ's living message—from the dead.

No genius this of fiery zeal, Or Church-craft veiling statesman's aim, To History's thunders to appeal, Or set the torch of feud aflame ; "All things to all men " was his rede, True outcome of the Pauline creed,— His greatness full as here can be, 'Out of a grand humility.

In England's Church-roll honoured high, For that victorious love-in-death, To whom was given so well to die, That, blessing with thy latest breath, 'Thou madest Peace thy twin for ever, Enthroned on thy supreme endeavour,— Speak thou for aye to England's heart, "Thy Master's noblest counterpart.

Gh, wisely generous, kindly wise, To throw all thought of self aside, And, dying as a hero dies, Go straight to Faith in scorn of pride !

Thy love-winged shaft unerring fell, The magnet knows the metal well; And spell-like round thy bed was thrown A trust as lofty as thine own.

So sank the Sower's seed of old Into the rich, responsive earth, To yield him back an hundredfold His fruitful blessing's costly worth ; But as of old broadcast it fell, Man still must keep the parallel, And still the scattered germs are found On thorny soil, or stony .ground.

We watched the weary strife of laws Wax fiercer round the garment's hem, And hair-split into plea and cause 'The legacy of Bethlehem ; Saw loving-kindness maimed and blind, Forbearance scattered to the wind, And the old Church's corner-stone Loosened by bastards of her own.

The fires of Smithfield burn no more, But still the sullen embers glow, And prelates jealous as of yore In every differer read a foe ; Still are there found the priests to trace God's finger only in their place, And out of His free service spell Their " perfect freedom "—to compel. Scarce had that loving spirit passed For over to his rapturous rest, And left oblivion at the last,

And new-made peace for high behest— Soothing to Calm the troubled sea, Like fair-enforced Galilee—

When from his own front rank of men The gage of strife is thrown again.

Peace, said we? Peace, where Peace is none? But Conscience fettered into line, And prelates proffering, "Peace, my son, Provided that your will be mine : Nor you nor yours shall worship God, Except with my divining-rod ; And rash Religion's way is barred, Unless as measured by the yard."

Idle, my Lords ! Not thus, nor now, When Freedom trembles to her feet, And the broad light upon her brow Is widening from the mercy-seat,- When sweeping over reef and rock, Surges the steady, onward shock, Shall priestcraft's narrowest forms abide The mighty rising of the tide.

Once more, ere yet it be too late, Thiuk of that last bequest sublime, Nor careless sufferance turn to hate, And battle with the powers of Time. Still o'er the quiet country grave, The olive-branches droop and wave ; In God's house yet is room for all : Shall it be now,—or not at all?

Christmas Day, 1882. ilmusfAx C. MEILIVALL TO THE PRIMATE DESIGNATE.

As full of awe as Death's own awful call, The voice that from thy dear young Western flock Summons thee to the forefront of the field.

For thine the charge, mid darkling cloud and storm, To hold on high the banner of the Cross, Rallying the armies of the God of Hosts.

Nay, sterner tasks are thine. We summon thee From strange confusions to elicit peace, To blend with strength of ancient loyalty The impetuous forces of swift-rushing days, To weave the web of old historic power With woof of newer thought and fresher life,

To trace high principle mid. tangled facts,—

To bravely spurn the false, maintain the true.

The Church hath need. of thee, thou man of God !

Oh, win the Christless thousands back to her !

Oh, shrine her in a nation's loyal trust !

Oh, crown her with a people's generous love!

God make thee wise, and strong, and brave, to guard Her life, her unity, her liberties !