To mighty powers no mortal eye can see?"

So mused he long and turned this question o'er,

Then, with impatient tread, he paced the floor,

Till maddened by conflicting trains of thought

And speculation vague, which came to naught,

With feverish haste he clutched a tasseled cord

As, desperate hands, in battle, clutch a sword.

"Summon Jehoshua," the monarch cried.

The white-haired Rabbi soon was at his side.

"I bow no more to powers I cannot

eyes

Refuse their service, turned upon the skies."

"Son of the dust," the Rabbi gently said,

And bowed, with reverence, his hoary head,

"This one creation, thou canst not behold,

Though by thy lofty state and pride made bold.

How canst thou, then, behold the God of Light,

Before whose face the sunbeams are as night?

Thine eyes before this trifling labor fall,

Canst gaze on him who hath created all?

Son of the dust, repentance can atone; Return and worship God, who rules alone."

JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

And, knowing that he stood before the Lord,

Within the shadow of the cherubim, Wide-winged between the blinding light and him,

He bowed himself, and uttered not a word,

But in the silence of his soul was prayer:

"O Thou Eternal! I am one of all, And nothing ask that others may not share.

Thou art Almighty; we are weak and small,

And yet Thy children: let Thy mercy spare!"

Trembling, he raised his eyes, and in the place

Of the insufferable glory, lo! a face Of more than mortal tenderness, that bent

Graciously down in token of assent, And, smiling, vanished! With strange joy elate,

The wondering Rabbi sought the Temple's gate,

Radiant as Moses from the Mourt he stood

And cried aloud unto the multitude: "O Israel, hear! The Lord our God

Then, as they slammed the door, he turned his gaze

Upon the last, in rain-expiring, rays, And said: "What God doth, He doeth well, I know,

Though dark His ways."

He was constrained to creep beneath some trees,

Through which went whistling the awaking breeze.

He lit his lamp, and set his book of prayer Upon his knees;

And from the book and flame the Rabbi drew

Some comfort, though the chill wind pierced through

His scanty clothing. The lamp outblew.

Suddenly a gust

One sunny day, the Talmud says,
A Rabbi walked the city's ways,
And met with startled gaze and awe
A prophet noted in the law.
The Rabbi bent his haughty head
Before this vision from the dead.
"Tell me, O master," pleaded he,
"Among this swarming crowd we see
Who shall attain to certain bliss

In that dread world that follows this."
"Behold that man!" the prophet cried,
"Humpbacked and lame and evil-eyed."
"That man, who keeps the prison keys?
Most mean and vile of all of these!"
"Yea, for the prisoners bless the sound
Of footsteps halting on the ground,
Such mercy and such cheer they bring,
Such tender care in everything,
Such pity for the soul that strayed,
For every want such tender aid.
Moreover, right before thee stand
Two travelers to the heavenly land-
Those smiling men, with saw and plane,
Intent their daily bread to gain.
Ragged and poor, they both belong
Most surely to the heavenly throng."
The prophet vanished as he spoke,
More sudden than a wind-blown smoke;
But little did the Rabbi heed,
He followed on those men with speed.
"Tell me, O brethren, how is this?
What works ye do for heavenly bliss?"
They turned and looked him in the
face.

"Why should Jehovah grant us grace?
We have but cheerful hearts within,
Nor think our happiness a sin.
And, if we meet a man cast down
Or sad at heart about the town,
We cheer him up with jest and song
And pleasant words and laughter long.
The little children as we pass
Smile at us from the nodding grass.
Sometimes we sport with them awhile,
Or wranglers strive to reconcile,
Whatever lies within our power
To make one happy heart or hour."
The Rabbi blessed them where they
stood,

Then turned and sought his solitude.
But ever thence, from deed and word.
Men called him "Sunshine of the Lord."
ROSE TERRY COOKE (1827-1892).