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The New Birth

'TIS a new life;--thoughts move not as they did

With slow uncertain steps across my mind,

In thronging haste fast pressing on they bid

The portals open to the viewless wind

That comes not save when in the dust is laid

The crown of pride that gilds each mortal brow,

And from before man's vision melting fade

The heavens and earth;--their walls are falling now.--

Fast crowding on, each thought asks utterance strong;

Storm-lifted waves swift rushing to the shore,

On from the sea they send their shouts along,

Back through the cave-worn rocks their thunders roar;

And I a child of God by Christ made free

Start from death's slumbers to Eternity.

Jones Very

Life

IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live,

But, to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee;

And when the sun and shower their bounties give,

To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful tree,

Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile,

Whose moss-grown arms their rigid branches rear,

And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile

As to its goodly shade our feet draw near;

Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more,

For 'tis the Father spreads the pure repast,

Who, while we eat, renews the ready store,

Which at his bounteous board must ever last;

For none the bridegroom's supper shall attend,

Who will not hear and make his word their friend.

Jones Very

Psyche

I SAW a worm, with many a fold;

It spun itself a sliken tomb;

And there in winter time enrolled,

It heeded not the cold or gloom.

Within a small, snug nook it lay,

Nor snow nor sleet could reach it there,

Nor wind was felt in gusty day,

Nor biting cold of frosty air.

Spring comes with bursting buds and grass,

Around him stirs a warmer breeze;

The chirping insects by him pass,

His hiding place not yet he leaves.

But summer came; its fervid breath

Was felt within the sleeper's cell;

And, waking from his sleep of death,

I saw him crawl from out his shell

Slow and with pain he first moved on,

And of the day he seemed to be;

A day passed by; the worm was gone,

It soared on golden pinions free!

Jones Very

Soul-Sickness

HOW many of the body's health complain,

When they some deeper malady conceal;

Some unrest of the sould, some secret pain,

Which thus its presence doth to theem reveal.

Vain would we seek, by the physician's aid,

A name for this soul-sickness e'er to find;

A remedy for health and strength decayed,

Whose cause and cure are wholly of the mind

To higher nature is the soul allied,

And restless seeks its being's Source to know;

Finding not health nor strength in aught beside;

How often vainly sought in things below,

Whether in sunny clime, or sacred stream,

Or plant of wondrous powers of which we dream!

Jones Very

The Latter Rain

THE latter rain,-- it falls in anxious haste

Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,

Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste

As if it would each root's lost strength repair;

But not a blade grows green as in the spring;

No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves;

The robins only mid the harvests sing,

Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves;

The rain falls still,-- the fruit all ripened drops,

It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell;

The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops;

Each bursting pod of talents used can tell;

And all that once received the early rain

Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

Jones Very

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