COPYRIGHT,1914, BY GEORGEF.BUTLER\--crl \eokFEB -6 1915fe 4147./ CI. A39165814.0 e

Dedicated to theVotary of Exalted Love

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EV CIP,2t 5THE VENUS OF MELOSThHERE fell avision to PraxitelesWatching through drowsy lids the loiteringseasThat lay caressing with white arms of foamThe sleeping marge of his Ionian home:He saw great Aphrodite standing nearExpressing all the beauty he had soughtWith life-long passion, and in love and fearIn Para's marble he the vision wrought.Far other was the form that Cnidos gaveTo senile Rome, no longer free nor brave,—The Medicean, naked like aslave.The Cnidians built her shrineOf creamy ivory fine.Most costly was the floorOf scented cedar, and from doorWas looped to carvern doorRich stuff of Syrian purple, in whose shadeHer glistening shoulders and round limbs outshoneMilk-white, as lilies 'neath asummer moon.Here honey-hearted Greece to worship came,High on her altar leaped the turbid flame,The quickened blood ran dancing to its doomAnd lip sought trembling lip in that rich gloom.The islanders of Cos, by the AegeanFrom Persia's fetid touch still keeping clean,Chose for their holier shrine amid the seasThat grander vision of Praxiteles.Long ages after, sunken in the ground

VenusoflelosOf wave-girt Melos, wondering shepherds foundThe marred and dinted statue which men nameVenus de Milo, saved to endless fame.Before the sacred marble, on adayThere came aworshiper. A slanted rayStruck in across the dimness of her shrineAnd touched her face as to asmile divine—For beauty was the worship of the Greek.At her loved altar thus Iheard him speak:Men call thee Love. Is there no holier nameThan thine, 0foam-born, laughter-loving dame?All words that pass the lips of mortal menWith inner and with outer meaning shine—An outer gleam that meets the vulgar ken,An inner light that but the few divine.Thou art the Love Celestial, seeking stillThe soul beneath the form; the serene will;The wisdom of whose deeps the sages dream;The gorgeous beauty that doth brightly gleamIn stars, and flowers, and waters where they rollMake whosoever sees ahomesick soul.Larger than mortal woman dost thou standIn rapt attention bending gracefully,As if those earnest-lighted eyes could seeSome glorious thing far off, to which thy handInvisibly stretched outward seems to be.From thy white forehead's breadth of calm, the hairSweeps lightly, as acloud in sunny air.Thy brow is curved as that still line at dawnWhen the last stars drown in unfathomed skies.Thy mouth so sweet; is it asmile that diesOr mild compassion which to weep now tries?Little as one may tell, some summer morn,Whether the dreamy brightness is most glad,Or melancholically sad.Thy ample waist no narrowing girdle holds;Thy garment's fallen foldsLeave bare thy fair round breast8

In charming loveliness and graceful rest.Around thy firm limb-curves and gentle feetThe robes slope downward as 'round flowering hillsDiaphanous gauze flows free when shadow fills7he hollow canons, and the wind is sweetFrom amber oatfields, and the ripening wheat.Ibow amazed before thy noble lines.How pure thy beauty in the marble shines,How different from the Cnidean graceIs the immortal glory of thy face!One is the spirit of all short-lived loveAnd outward, earthly loveliness.The crimson morn of lust is in her smile,Wild sensuality reigns in her groveAnd always coveting man's warm caressShe offers keenly her white hill-slopes, the whileHer thrilling voice is heardIn song of wind and wave, and every flitting bird.When if across the parching plainMan sees her, she with passion burnsHis heart to fever, and he hearsThe west winds mocking laughter when he turnsShivering in mist of ocean's sullen tears.It is the Medicean. In her lustIs burning heat and blighting frost.Woe to the man who feels her breath,Her love is curse, her kiss is death.Thou too, 0 Melos' daughter, walkest hereUpon the lifted hills:Wherever thy still grace within the breastThe inner beauty of the world has moved,Wherever men through thee have loved—.In starlight that the dome of evening fills,On endless waters sounding to the west—They won the brightest and the best,Because thou leadst from what is realUp to thy higher world ideal.Oh, Iadore thee! Through the purple dawn9VenusofAldus

VenusofMelosStaring against the dark Isee the spaceOpening immeasurably, and thy faceWaving and glimmering and soon withdrawn.And many days when all one's work is vain,And life goes stretching on, awaste grey plain,With e'en the short mirage of morning gone,No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nighWhere weary man might lie still down and die,Lo, thou art there before me suddenly,With shade as if asummer cloud should pass,And spray of fountains, freshning to the grass.Oh save me from wild passion's heatWhich drives my heart to feverish beat.Save from that Medicean dameWhose love-embrace is ardent flame,Who fascinates with serpent's glancesThe trembling victim of her fancies.Now, even now she smiling standsClose, as Iturn, with outstretched hands.She keeps me back. I'm seized. I'm caught,She has my heart, she has my thought,Ifeel her lips on my lips burn,'Yes, Medicean, I'll return—With fervour like the pagan godsIcome to kiss thy rosy buds,Absorbing with delight thy breathThough knowing that thy kiss is death.'Melos, thou stand'st too high for me,Thine eyes look too ideallyAway from earth to heights above.Icannot grasp thy nobler love;The transcendental thoughts and dreamsThy lucid eye around thee beams,Icannot seize them as IseizeThe lustful goddess Medices.Through her my thought goes unto thee,In half-divided harmony.Her's is my earthly heart, to thee above10

Will ever rise my soul's delightful love.Then I'll not say farewell. What would earth beWithout thy presence? Surely unto meA life-long weariness, adull, bad dream.Abide with me and let thy calm eyes beamFresh hope upon me every amber dawn,New peace when evening's violet veil is drawn.Then, though Isee along the glooming plainThe Medicean's waving hand again,And white feet glimmering in the harvest field,Ishall not turn nor yield;But as heaven deepens and the Cross and LyreLift up their stars beneath the Northern Crown,Unto the yearnings of the world's desireIshall beware of answer coming down;And something, when my heart the darkness stills,Shall tell me, without sound or any sight,That other footsteps are upon the hills,Till the dim earth is luminous with the lightOf the white dawn from some far hidden shore,That shines upon thy forehead evermore.11VenusofMelos

v.L AQ light, ineffable, mantles thy gloriousform. Thou art like an emanation of somebright morning thought, some kindlingr.A dream by fancy woven into the coarserthreads of daily existence, and so shot o'erthe colorless fabric of earthly experience that care andsorrow are made tribute to the majesty of thy serenebeauty, and doubt and tears abide not in thy magicpresence. Wert thou, then, sweet Aphrodite, mouldedindeed by the hand of man? Was ever in Arcadya formso spotless fair, asmile so radiant or lips so divinelytender? Could the blue Aegean fashion thee in thisimperial loveliness as fable says, or imprint of Jove'sfinger call thee into being? No, no; only the heartand brain of man hath shaped from dull clay theBeautiful expressed in thee. Only the tremulousoutpouring of a human soul could have so wroughtthe transcendent image of mortal love and aspiration; awitness unto the ages of the truth and powerof Love. Not fire nor sword, not vengeance nordespair, is embodied in thee, but that supremeemotion whence issues all that most dignifies andsweetens life, the dream within the dream, all beautyof material insight permeated by the living miracleof Love. Thou art of earth we know. Faint semblances of thy perfection we have looked upon, andin our thoughts the hope doth linger that thy formis but a happy antitype of some breathing imagedwelling upon that sacred Melian shore. Yet something awes us as we gaze on thee and whispers that aseraph from heaven once hovered o'er thy creator andguided his unconscious hand.


TheTravailof aSoulHIS sorrow makes me pure, for grief doth foldAll thoughts in its dark mantle. Even the firesThat kindled in me passionate desiresh.No more my heart in anxious thraldom hold.And with this secret pain Imust grow old:"That my sweet hopes must mount fate's lurid pyres,And other fingers sweep love's sacred lyresWhile in my soul the breath divine is cold."0 Mother Earth, whose bosom still is warm,Take thou thy child ere time shall bid him weepO'er memory's sad heritage! InformWith light of the new life the hours IkeepAs but awithered garland kissed with tears,The ashes left from dreams of happier years.,16

EAUTIFUL IMAGE—which, looking on, noneneed name, since every feature glows withsacred love and speaks ere we have time toquestion thy message unto men—how since myyouth have Ibeheld thy wondrous beauty andin imagination longed to dwell forever in the radiance of thychaste loveliness! Here in this attic-chapel, whither Ihave crept to rest awhile from labor and from men, thouart at length enshrined before my tired eyes, and as Igazeenraptured upon the overmastering light and power andgrace that so haunt thee, upon the very spirit of the Beautiful which lights thy glorious form, touches with infinitecharm thy purely noble contours, and mantles in thy facedivine, all of earth that bound my bleeding heart is foldedaway as by acurtain of sunset splendor. Thou canst notspeak to me, my Aphrodite? Not one sweet word toanswer all my kisses? Then let thy mute protection bemy amulet, which Iwill wear in secret among men, andthey shall not know why my life seems gentler and ,morethoughtful, nor why Ismile when sorrows thicken and thelong, long pilgrimage is lonelier, ghastlier still.Eachhidden pang shall be assuaged by memories of thee and ofthy brooding, patient benediction, which every morningwelcomes and delights, which sends me forth to daily toilin pity and vast love, and in the solemn evening hourstransforms this lowly habitation into the dwelling place ofGod.Comfort me, 0 my Venus, my Aphrodite!Look on my woe with thy divine compassionAnd by thy beauty heal this tender heartbreakEre death shall call me.Speak to me, 0 my Eidolon, my Aphrodite!Lo, my heart is sere with hopeless passion,Thou only canst revive its faded embers,My Aphrodite.17TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoulHY image haunts me. Icannot forgetThy brave, true nature and thy quiet grace.Oh, since that summer day when first we metMy memory reflects thy radiant face.Ifain would breathe to thee this longing prayer:"That hand in hand together we might roveThe happy woodlands, finding everywhereIn light and shade the flower of perfect love."But this relentless Fate that follows closeUpon my dreams—how can Itrust her now?Or know that when Iask of thee arose,Thou wouldst not but the thorn on me bestow?So leaving e'er these tender thoughts unsaidIonly wish that Iwere lying dead.18

NMID athousand hearts Iwandered, seen and yetunseen, perchance to gather some respite of painfrom theirjoy, some glad consciousness of humanfeeling that should transfigure the shadow of myk.solitude. These at least were my countrymen,and in their careless pleasure might I not find theLethe I sought so long in vain? But still my BeautifulOne, Ireturn to thee alone. Here during the summer dayhast thou stood charming the silences; here thy smileawaits thy recreant lover, beaming as of old when thoudidst thrill my boyish fancy with unutterable longings forthe True, the Beautiful and the Good. Did Ithen forgetthee in these wayward hours? Ah, no. Even in the crowdIlonged to return to thee and thy calm radiance, to lookagain with tears of quiet rapture on thy features, and feelwithin my heart the subtle spell thy beauty doth instil.Thine arms are here no more—yet they are tenderly laidabout earth's children, and in their soft embrace we cannotmourn thy mutilation, but rather draw nearer to thydivine face in which there shines aspiritual loveliness andnobility, as if fate had crowned thee with thy loss. 0beautiful, my Aphrodite, canst thou not by the power ofthy vast loss uplift me ever from the abyss of sorrow anddespair? Shall Inot know that every thought is chastenedby thy presence, and so draw unto me the living truth inthy dear clay that even my griefs shall seem like silentministers, veiling themselves in tears and darkness only toappear hereafter recreate and full of blessing? What meanness can abide, what thing unlovely or impure, before theglory of thy mute appeal?Comfort me, 0 my Eidolon, my Aphrodite!The summer blooms in skies serene and tender,In lisping leaves that tremble in the moonlight,Haunting my fancy.Let thy pure image speak of love and beauty,Call to me clear when night and sorrow hasten,And every thought redeem from aught unworthyThy guardian splendor.19TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoulNHINK not my love an abject thing, 0 heart,Whose shadow beside other hearts is light!Ineeds must worship at thy shrine despite. All pain and hopeless longing, or departFrom the sweet life whose sovereign thoughtthou art.Yet such pride is mine Icould not layThis treasure at thy feet, my love, alwayDid Inot scorn thee too, disdaining to impartUnto thine ear my languishment and care,Slow cankers nourished by my heart's despair.Go, Love, and let me think of thee as oneNot born of earth, but wandered from some spotToo fair for mortal feet, and all aloneBreathe out in prayer the soul thou hast forgot.20

*4 EACElingers in thy presence, lovely image,—peace in thy sightless eyes, thy lips, thy flowing hair; and on thy tender yet majestic browthe seal of godlike beauty rests supreme.Where now is the restless throng amid whichan hour ago Isauntered anxiously with ear alert to catch ifpossible, some note of cheer, some brave, true token of aliving spirit ruling this poor clay? Alas, only the empty echoesof a Vanity Fair; always a husk, the kernel never. Sadfaces even in your smiles tired wanderers. For must notthere come a day to you, as to us all, when the slenderpipings of your carnal loves shall be drowned in the universal chant? Go unto your feverish couches; carpe diem,and let the sorrow of life remain unheard of in your revelry.But oh, so sad ye are through all, so full of nothingnessand ignorance and woe. Come Inot then to thee, sweetAphrodite, with fresher love for thy chaste care?Is notthy hair unsoiled, thy lips more nobly pure, thy limbswith virginal loveliness replete? Who will ever know howthine ineffable radiance illumines my thoughts when thebewitching light of earthly eyes lure me from the heart'shighest, holiest devotion? For Ihave none but thee, myAphrodite, to call my own, nor can I ever press on lipssave thine my burning kisses, nor pour in mortal ear thesacred passion that Ipour to thee.Comfort me, 0 my Eidolon, my Aphrodite!Let thy bright smile like sunlight o'er my sadnessFall with this summer day, and leave no tokenOf my vast sorrow.Hearken, sweet image, hearken to my heart beat,See how its morning love is turned to ashesAnd all the dream divine that thrilled my bosomForever vanished.21TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoultNGELIC one, informing mortal mouldWith an unearthly loveliness: IgazeEnraptured, mute, with all my soul ablazeAnd feel thy presence my whole heart enfold.Icannot name the power that doth holdMy spirit bound to thine, nor murmur praiseOf him to whom high creeds their homage raise.My deepest thought from utterance is controlled;PYet tenderer than stately litaniesOn bended knees beneath the temple's dome,Are the still dreams that in my bosom riseWhen near to thee, my Eidolon, IcomeAnd look into thy calm, thy thoughtful eyes,With sense of God possessed, with reverence dumb.22

'IAD world and sadder longings for a land ofpeace. How in the multitude of chill misgivings that arise in viewing the errors and sorrows of humanity, the heart turns within find some oblivion for the wretchedness thatis and has been, some mild assurance that the years to comemay vouchsafe alittle respite from this mighty care. Whatis there, then, to waken in our breasts sweet pitying thoughtsfor those who suffer and so nobly endure, or to turn ustoward the upward path—the flight of the spirit divineimprisoned in this anxious clay? Beauty, beauty is hereto answer and uplift. While blooms a single flower, whilethe stars of morning sing and the day dies in golden splendor, while but one pure heart beats with ineffable love, oneeye beams tenderly upon us, or from one living soul therebreaks a high, brave utterance, while songs of radiantchildren echo through our hearts the cherub gladness withwhich heaven has set its seal upon their infant years, whileart and music dwell with us, and everywhere the tokens ofthe Beautiful arrest our tired eyes—so long shall sorrow becomforted, so long shall all be well with us even in aworldof woe. And thou, my Silent One, thou type of that whicheye hath never seen, supremely fair among earth's brightest daughters, when shall Ifind in living mould the semblance of thy sculptured clay? Yet thou art but a breathfrom some far human spirit; some exquisite emanation ofdivine love that by the kindling touch of genius bodiedforth its loveliest aspiration, and in this lovely formembodied a mortal thought. How must his hand havetrembled as he shaped those lines which in coming ageswere to command the veneration of mankind and be hisdeathless apotheosis! How must his loving eyes havefilled with tears of joy and all his delicate nature havebeen touched to ecstasy as from the earth beneath his feethe wrought that glorious miracle!So unto thee, myBeautiful One, I bring fresh garlands from my heart'sdepths to crown thee with my longing love. A wreath ofviolets shall press thy noble brow, and myrtle and orangeblossoms and the daintiest vines that grow shall mantle23TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoulthee with my most tender care; for art thou not thepurest ray that ever broke upon my solitude, and in thisstill retreat dost thou not smile upon me night and dayand fill my fancy with perennial delight?Comfort me, 0 my Eidolon, my Aphrodite!Thou image of love and tender compassion,Stoop to receive, even in its dearest flower,All Ican give thee:All that my living spirit longs to utter,Finding no ear save thine to stay and hearken,All that Inevermore to breathing imageFondly shall whisper.24

TheTravailof aSoulHINE, glorious morn; and let thy beams inspireThis mortal frame with holy reverence,This mind inform with adiviner senseAOf truth and beauty. From thy Orient pyreShed forth aray to soften man's desire,And fill the soul with purer feelings, whenceAll that is best in life's munificenceWe draw, and struggle onward, and aspire.Beneath thy radiance let this mould of clayThe living temple of high thoughts remain;Bid our hearts answer to this tuneful air:Lo, o'er the past how fair this summer dayBreaks with forgiving tenderness, and fainWould crown each earthly spirit bowed with care.26

1 Tis agreat morning." Forth from the darknessstands thy matchless form, sweet Aphrodite.Thy regal calm is there, thy softly-partedhair, thy loving eyes—not sightless now butfar seeing into the eternal dawn,—thy benigsmile as thou lookest upon the sorrows of earth's childrenwho will not come to thee and gaze upon thy gloriousface.Thy very attitude is that of listening to theircry of loneliness and pain. Thou knowest their long watchings and the tender heartbeats that pulsate through theirmortal clay: they will not come to thee, and thy vast loveand pity tinge with pensive sadness thy noble countenance,that looketh not to heaven,—since thou art heaven-born andstandest girt with infinite, familiar light,—but only to uspoor wayward worshipers of trivial things, ignorant of thehigh destiny written upon the Maker's scroll, the tendingever of our faltering feet towards the divine, outspeakingin thy silent message unto men. "Fear not, for Iam withthee," whipers thy living oracle of Love. Not baseness ofOlympian terrors, not pure passivity of Nirvana, not thesad force of unrelenting anathema or fatal logic of an hourwith unholy priests, nay not even the thrilling mysticismof agropping age, but true, warm, living love, god-given,and endued with perennial freshness and beauty. Touchstone of all reverie and action, purifier of all purifiers,kindler of light ineffable alike in the human heart and atour blessed firesides, dream within dream, savior andstrength of that struggling spirit in man, itself akin tothee, to which thy brooding compassion sighs to ministerand uplift: Aphrodite, my beautiful, hearken to thy lover.it27TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoulNISE weary soul, oh, rise above thy pain;Thy aims are pure, thy honor without stain.What tho' the world deny thee every joyAnd lonely thoughts thy happiness destroy?Cling to thy deeper yearnings and believeThat patient goodness will the full reprieveBring to thy feet at last. Call unto GodIn acts of nobleness, and from the sod,Sown with thy tenderest tears, sweet blooms shall springWhose dews like balm on every sufferingShall fall. Rise, wounded soul, thy powers refineWith prayer that lifteth mortal to divine.Thro' earth's most poignant grief God's smile doth shine,And to each troubled soul some peace will bring.28

*4 EIGHEDdown with sorrows and with disappointment, my heart lifts its longing prayer tothee, sweet Aphrodite. Many and cruel watershave gone over me, fires of hell have burnedinto my soul, and darkness unutterable shroudedfrom my eyes the light of day. Yet Istill struggle with thesurge, still mounting upward feel the cool breath of morning upon my cheek, still catch afar the glimmering lightthat breaks from the empurpled East. Out of that newday bursts thy glorious image, just risen from the echoing sea, bright with a creator's loving impress, ImmortalLove. And where shall I find thee the garland of thysacred devotion, or how fashion hymn to thee in fittinghonor of thy coming? So pure, so lofty, so benignant—and art thou indeed standing in this lonely chamber farfrom thy Melian niche to shed thy splendor on my sorrowing thoughts? Loved, loving Aphrodite. Nor myrtlenor amaranth to weave a chaplet for thy royal brow, nordoes earth hold attendance fair enough to honor thee,though the daughters of land and sea be thy handmaidens.Thou dost not longer dwell in Arcady, thou art comeunto a strange abode and to the clatter and frivolity of acoarser age. Yet thy searching eyes, so they look well andlong, shall yonder descry thy modern votary, and even inthe thoughtless multitude shalt thou find some delicatenature to answer thee and adore. Iat least will not forsake thee, though we dwell alone; and morn and eventhine shall be my tenderest homage, messenger of LoveSupreme.Thou art so pure, thou art so fair and holy,And thy dull clay by Love's impress transfiguredBeams like astar amid this night of passion,Stainless and glorious.Yet in thy features kindles now abeauty,Who shall say whether 'tis divine or mortal ?Passionless, yet suffused with loving radiance,Humanly tender.29TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoul*NNEperfect gift bath Fortune to bestow,With which of all her stores none can compare,One priceless treasure than all else more fair,Possessing which to us all others flow.To win this boon might mortal well foregoEach lesser thought, each joy however rare;Might o'er atrackless desert bravely fareOr patiently accept fate's sternest blow.Ask ye what so can move the heart to praise,Invest the clod with grandeur, touch the springsOf finer feeling in us, and aboveAll meaner passions its true praises raiseTriumphant 'mid athousand sufferings?'Tis the enchanted amulet of Love.30

VWOULD be dumb to all the world save thee,my Aphrodite. Yes, though my heart trembledwith suppressed longings, it should neither seeknor find other ears than thine, other lips to#kiss, other smiles to greet me. For mortals areo'ershadowed by the hues of melancholy thoughts, and waywardness and sorrow are their destiny; but thou standestforever girt with light and joy. In thee there is no change.Only at times methinks thy face doth wear alook of innersadness and thy sweet mouth reveal a tremulous tenderness of mild pathos, the sombre reflection perchance ofthat which binds me to the realm of desolation. Yet hopeis never wanting in thy fair lineaments. Something ofnative dignity is there always in thy calm gaze, for artthou not divinely born and nurtured, and dost thou notbehold with thy clear vision the far-off truth whose tokensunto man are mystery and care ?' 0 radiant Queen, emblem of holiest aspiration whichburning in the human heart transmutes to bliss the sufferings to which humanity is heir: 0 beautiful, my Aphrodite,step from thy throne one hour endued with majesty of lifeand motion that I may behold thee robed in breathingsemblance of immortal love.Comfort me, 0 my Beautiful, my Aphrodite!Draw to thy bosom all this silent anguishStilling my passionate heart with words and kissesDivinely tender.31TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoulC4NAST not thy pearls "—so pride with scornful toneBids us be still and wait, nor lay our treasureBeneath the feet of them who with astone.Answer us asking bread, and for full measuret4.Of loving kindness not one little grainOf sympathy would offer; yet the heartIs mighty, and awhisper comes againFrom the clear-seeing soul that dwells apart,In majesty of truth, saying, "Not so;Give of thy bounteous will nor count the costTho' centuries wait thy guerdon to bestow.Whate'er is good and true shall not be lost;But every word and deed sprung from the spiritIn nobleness shall fairest meed inherit."32

THAT must have been the rapture of those beautyloving Greeks, when in thy wave-girt isle thoustoodst revealed ? How must each piping swaint have kindled with quiet ecstasy and maidenslonged to crown thee with myrtle and olive, forsurely never had all their tenderest visions taken shape inart as in thy glorious form! What happy pilgrimages o'erenchanted seas must have borne to thy bright shrine thehomage of a grateful people, and what lips of childrenrepeated thy name, what sires rejoiced as at the breakingof celestial day? Long, long didst thou wait in thyearthen crypt ere reverent generations were permitted togaze upon thy loveliness, and to gather strength and truthfrom thy undying message unto men. Now here, even inthis far chamber, art thou come to dwell with me. Thedying centuries have not cast one shadow o'er thy glowingfeatures, nor has the wanton touch of human hand marredthy perfection. Fresh thou art, my Aphrodite, as on thatmemorable morn when the young sculptor stood entrancedbefore thee and wondered if indeed his hand had wroughtso magically.Speak to my heart and bid it feel the longing,The gentle thoughts and tears of gentle passionWhich touched his soul, and with this dream of beautyHis heart inspired.Let me, like him who moulded thy fair features,Something create of beauty, truth and goodness,Which in the hearts of reverent generationsShall live forever.33TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoul;HERE is no ill that cometh not for good.Ah! could we in the apothegm discernThe living truth for which we strive andyearn,And from despair, defeat, and solitude,Rise with the patience of adauntless mood!But sorrow keeps the heart too weak to learnThe strength of hope, the blighted aims that burn,With fate's repression all misunderstood!No woes ought to depress the steadfast soul:There cometh for the hearts who hope and pineA sudden change, and what we deem mischanceIs fate's decision; true to her control,Good comes from ill. O'er every circumstanceA will rules, high, mysterious, and divine.34

NWEET Aphrodite. Let me anew dedicate tothee my purest thoughts. Again let me lookup to thee as to aprotecting genius whose loving kindness follows me into the waste places1of earth and transforms whatever is unsightlyand full of sorrow, smoothing the wrinkles of age till itseems but ahappy crown of days even to the poor and theIfflicted, gilding with fairest gold the morning of youth,shose feet shall never pass beyond the blessed portals ofinocence, as by some wondrous alchemy transmuting allorldly dross into beauty, and so permeating life with thypiet radiance that all seems good and lovely when Ithinkthee. Let every morning be to me a morn of new life';,Iwake to find thee standing o'er my bed and hail thatavenly smile, more beautiful than ever graced the lipsfmortals, tender and strong, as if thou wert listening toome oracle divine, the solution of human mystery andam, which unto our dull ears may never, never come.hat is it, then, fair Goddess, thou dost hear?—that in,ome bright realm beyond the purple sunset all our gentle,ongings shall be fulfilled? That softer arms shall be laid1:about us than any moulded for earthly caress?Thatweeter voices shall call, or eyes more loving greet us in thelong hereafter, whose glorious dawn we see in brightermoments of the soul's prophetic vision, in fleeting fanciesthat summon us to their enchanted abode, in dreams thatall unbidden enter into our lonely hearts and dwell with usunseen, in swift emotions welling upwards from the spirit's!deeps and gathering all our hopes and passions in a silent,prayerful tear? 0 tell me, Aphrodite, what morning lightillumines thy countenance. I seek yet find it not—it isnot here.y35TheTravailof aSoul

TheTravailof aSoul70 wrest from sin the kernel of God's truth,To carve

this edition of "the travail of a soul", by george f. butler, is limited to two hun-dred copies, of which this is number the ralph fletcher seymour co., publishers.