When the Bells of Ys rang softly,… Soft—and sweet—and low, Not a sound was heard in the old g… As the silvery tones came floating… But life stood still with uncovere…

('Be christs!'- was one of W. T. Stead’s favourite sayings. Not ‘Be like Christ!’- but– ‘Be christs!’ And he used the word no doubt in its original meaning,- anointed, ordained, chosen....

Time beats out all things with his… Things great, things small. With steady strokes that never fai… With slow, sure strokes of his iro… Time beats out all.

When, with bowed head, And silent-streaming tears, With mingled hopes and fears, To earth we yield our dead; The Saints, with clearer sight,

Though every nerve be strained To fine accomplishment, Full oft the life fall spent Before the prize is gained. And, in our discontent

The spikenard was not wasted;— All down the tale of years, The fragrance of that broken alaba… Still clings to Mary’s memory, As clung its perfume sweet unto he…

All through the blood-red Autumn, When the harvest came to the full; When the days were sweet with suns… And the nights were wonderful,— The Reaper reaped without ceasing…

With a will! With a will! With a will and surely! Without fail, Drive each nail,

Warp and Woof and Tangle,— Weavers of Webs are we. Living and dying—and mightier dead… For the shuttle, once sped, is spe… Weavers of Webs are we.

Bright stars of Faith and Hope, h… Shall shine for us through all the… For all her life was Love, and fe… Touch not the love that never dies… And Death itself, to her, was but

Our feet have wandered, wandered f… His mercy endureth for ever! From that strait path in which the… His mercy endureth for ever! Low have we fallen from our high e…

Though the times be dark and drear… Though the way be long, Keep your spirits bright and cheer… —'Bide a wee, and dinna weary!’ Is a heartsome song.

(As earnestly as any I crave the victory of Right over this madness of Insensate Might against which we are contending. As certainly as any I would, if that were conceivably poss...

Unless our Souls win back to Thee… We shall have lost this fight. Yes, though we win on field and se… Though mightier still our might ma… We still shall lose if we win not…

I saw my fellows In Poverty Street,— Bitter and black with life’s defea… Ill-fed, ill-housed, of ills compl… And I said to myself,—