He passed the end of the cottage Toward the garden gate; (I suppose he was come down At the setting of the sun To comfort some one in the village Whose dwelling was desolate) And he paused before the door Beside my place, And the likeness of a smile Was on his face. "Weep not," he said, "for unto you is given To watch for the coming of his feet Who is the glory of our blessed heaven; The work and watching will be very sweet, Even in an earthly home; And in such an hour as you think not He will come."

So I am watching quietly Every day. Whenever the sun shines brightly, I rise and say: "Surely it is the shining of his face!" And look unto the gates of his high place Beyond the sea; For I know he is coming shortly To summon me. And when a shadow falls across the window Of my room, Where I am working my appointed task, I lift my head to watch the door, and ask If he is come; And the angel answers sweetly In my home: "Only a few more shadows, And he will come."

BARBARA MILLER MACANDREW.

* * * * *

EUTHANASIA.

Methinks, when on the languid eye Life's autumn scenes grow dim; When evening's shadows veil the sky; And pleasure's siren hymn Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, Like echoes from another sphere, Or dreams of seraphim— It were not sad to cast away This dull and cumbrous load of clay.

It were not sad to feel the heart Grow passionless and cold; To feel those longings to depart That cheered the good of old; To clasp the faith which looks on high, Which fires the Christian's dying eye, And makes the curtain-fold That falls upon his wasting breast, The door that leads to endless rest.

It seems not lonely thus to lie On that triumphant bed, Till the pure spirit mounts on high By white-winged seraphs led: Where glories, earth may never know, O'er "many mansions" lingering glow, In peerless lustre shed. It were not lonely thus to soar Where sin and grief can sting no more.

And though the way to such a goal Lies through the clouded tomb, If on the free, unfettered soul There rest no stains of gloom, How should its aspirations rise Far through the blue unpillared skies, Up to its final home, Beyond the journeyings of the sun, Where streams of living waters run!

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

* * * * *

THE LAST MAN.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time! I saw the last of human mould That shall creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,—the brands Still rusted in their bony hands, In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sear leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will? Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim, discrowned king of day; For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again: Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips, that speak thy dirge of death,— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death!

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste,— Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

WHEN.

If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through. What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone; But rise and move and love and smile and pray For one more day.

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within thy keeping How should I fear? And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, Do thou thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All the night long; and when the morning splendor Flushed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile—could calmly say, "It is his day."

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder Held out a scroll, On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clew, What should I do?'

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master, Other than this; Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, Nor fear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by thee?

Step after step, feeling thee close beside me, Although unseen, Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee, Or heavens serene, Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay.

I may not know; my God, no hand revealeth Thy counsels wise; Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, No voice replies To all my questioning thought, the time to tell; And it is well.

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Thy will always, Through a long century's ripening fruition Or a short day's; Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait If thou come late.

SARAH WOOLSEY (Susan Coolidge).

* * * * *

BURIAL OF MOSES.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."—DEUTERONOMY xxxiv. 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave; But no man built that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er; For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; Yet no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth: Noiselessly as daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Unfold their thousand leaves: So without sound of music Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle On gray Beth-peor's height Out of his rocky eyry Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking Still shuns that hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.

But, when the warrior dieth. His comrades of the war. With arms reversed and muffled drums, Follow the funeral car: They show the banners taken; They tell his battles won; And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute-gun.

Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, With costly marbles drest, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall, And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned hall.

This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his glorious pen On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?— The hillside for a pall! To lie in state while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall! And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in his grave!—

In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again—O wondrous thought!— Before the judgment day, And stand, with glory wrapped around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land! O dark Beth-peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still: God hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell, He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

* * * * *

THE RESIGNATION.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skill; But what the Eternal acts is right.

Oh, teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own my power, Thy goodness love, thy Justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but thee Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, And Mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain, Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still; The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals' feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resigned, I'll thank the inflicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

* * * * *

"ONLY WAITING."

[A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing now. He replied, "Only waiting."]

Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart, once full of day; Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer time is faded, And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away; If they call me, I am waiting, Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown. Then from out the gathered darkness, Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul shall gladly Tread its pathway to the skies.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

* * * * *

HOPEFULLY WAITING.

"Blessed are they who are homesick, for they shall come at last to their Father's house."—HEINRICH STILLING.

Not as you meant, O learned man, and good! Do I accept thy words of truth and rest; God, knowing all, knows what for me is best, And gives me what I need, not what he could, Nor always as I would! I shall go to the Father's house, and see Him and the Elder Brother face to face,— What day or hour I know not. Let me be Steadfast in work, and earnest in the race, Not as a homesick child who all day long Whines at its play, and seldom speaks in song.

If for a time some loved one goes away, And leaves us our appointed work to do, Can we to him or to ourselves be true In mourning his departure day by day, And so our work delay? Nay, if we love and honor, we shall make The absence brief by doing well our task,— Not for ourselves, but for the dear One's sake. And at his coming only of him ask Approval of the work, which most was done, Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One.

Our Father's house, I know, is broad and grand; In it how many, many mansions are! And, far beyond the light of sun or star, Four little ones of mine through that fair land Are walking hand in hand! Think you I love not, or that I forget These of my loins? Still this world is fair, And I am singing while my eyes are wet With weeping in this balmy summer air: Yet I'm not homesick, and the children here Have need of me, and so my way is clear.

I would be joyful as my days go by, Counting God's mercies to rue. He who bore Life's heaviest cross is mine forever-more, And I who wait his coming, shall not I On his sure word rely? And if sometimes the way be rough and steep, Be heavy for the grief he sends to me, Or at my waking I would only weep, Let me remember these are things to be, To work his blessed will until he comes To take my hand, and lead me safely home.

ANSON D.F. RANDOLPH.

* * * * *

SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

Sit down, sad soul, and count The moments flying; Come, tell the sweet amount That's lost by sighing! How many smiles?—a score? Then laugh, and count no more; For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, And no more measure The flight of time, nor weep The loss of leisure; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same; We love,—forever; We laugh, yet few we shame,— The gentle never. Stay, then, till sorrow dies; Then—hope and happy skies Are thine forever!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. (Barry Cornwall.)

* * * * *

IT KINDLES ALL MY SOUL.

"Urit me Patriae decor."

It kindles all my soul, My country's loveliness! Those starry choirs That watch around the pole, And the moon's tender light, and heavenly fires Through golden halls that roll. O chorus of the night! O planets, sworn The music of the spheres To follow! Lovely watchers, that think scorn To rest till day appears! Me, for celestial homes of glory born, Why here, O, why so long, Do ye behold an exile from on high? Here, O ye shining throng, With lilies spread the mound where I shall lie: Here let me drop my chain, And dust to dust returning, cast away The trammels that remain; The rest of me shall spring to endless day!

From the Latin of CASIMIR OF POLAND.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE.

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time. When you set your fancies free, Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned— Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, —Pity me?

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel —Being—who?

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer! Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,—fight on, fare ever There as here!"

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

CROSSING THE BAR.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, O, the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE.

* * * * *

ODE.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

I.

There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light,— The glory and the freshness of the dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore: Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II.

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

III.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief; A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,— No more shall grief of mine the season wrong. I hear the echoes through the mountains throng; The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity; And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;— Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy!

IV.

Ye blessed creatures! I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal,— The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May morning, And the children are culling, On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm;— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!— But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked upon,— Both of them speak of something that is gone; The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat. Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows— He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended: At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

VI.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,— A six years' darling of a pygmy size! See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly learned art,— A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral;— And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part,— Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the persons, down to palsied age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

VIII.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity! Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage! thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind!— Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX.

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live; That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not, indeed, For that which is most worthy to be blest,— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather. Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither,— Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,— To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

SOLILOQUY: ON IMMORTALITY.

FROM "CATO," ACT V. SC. I.

SCENE.—CATO, sitting in a thoughtful posture, with book on the Immortality of the Soul in his hand, and a drawn sword on the table by him.

It must be so—Plato, thou reasonest well!— Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire. This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis Heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity!—thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes, must we pass! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works), he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures,—this must end 'em.

(Laying his hand on his sword.)

Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds!

JOSEPH ADDISON.

* * * * *

EDWIN AND PAULINUS:

THE CONVERSION OF NORTHUMBRIA.

The black-haired gaunt Paulinus By ruddy Edwin stood:— "Bow down, O king of Deira, Before the blessed Rood! Cast out thy heathen idols. And worship Christ our Lord." —But Edwin looked and pondered, And answered not a word.

Again the gaunt Paulinus To ruddy Edwin spake: "God offers life immortal For his dear Son's own sake! Wilt thou not hear his message, Who bears the keys and sword?" —But Edwin looked and pondered, And answered not a word.

Rose then a sage old warrior Was fivescore winters old; Whose beard from chin to girdle Like one long snow-wreath rolled: "At Yule-time in our chamber We sit in warmth and light, While cold and howling round us Lies the black land of Night.

"Athwart the room a sparrow Darts from the open door: Within the happy hearth-light One red flash,—and no more! We see it come from darkness, And into darkness go:— So is our life. King Edwin! Alas, that it is so!

"But if this pale Paulinus Have somewhat more to tell; Some news of Whence and Whither, And where the soul will dwell;— If on that outer darkness The sun of hope may shine;— He makes life worth the living! I take his God for mine!"

So spake the wise old warrior; And all about him cried, "Paulinus' God hath conquered! And he shall be our guide:— For he makes life worth living Who brings this message plain, When our brief days are over, That we shall live again."

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY.

Could we but know The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, Where lie those happier hills and meadows low; Ah! if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil Aught of that country could we surely know, Who would not go?

Might we but hear The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear One radiant vista of the realm before us,— With one rapt moment given to see and hear, Ah, who would fear?

Were we quite sure To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,— This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, Who would endure?

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

"Das stille Land."

Into the Silent Land! Ah, who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, oh, thither, Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions Of beauteous souls! The future's pledge and band! Who in life's battle firm doth stand Shall bear hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great departed, Into the Silent Land!

JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS.

Translation of H.W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE OTHER WORLD.

It lies around us like a cloud,— A world we do not see; Yet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; Amid our worldly cares Its gentle voices whisper love, And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, Sweet helping hands are stirred, And palpitates the veil between With breathings almost heard.

The silence—awful, sweet, and calm— They have no power to break; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, So near to press they seem,— They seem to lull us to our rest, And melt into our dream.

And in the bush of rest they bring 'Tis easy now to see How lovely and how sweet a pass The hour of death may be.

To close the eye, and close the ear, Rapt in a trance of bliss, And gently dream in loving arms To swoon to that—from this.

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, Scarce asking where we are, To feel all evil sink away, All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still, Press nearer to our side, Into our thoughts, into our prayers, With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught, A dried and vanished stream; Your joy be the reality. Our suffering life the dream.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.

I never spake with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.

EMILY DICKINSON.

* * * * *

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

High thoughts! They come and go, Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden, While round me flow The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden: When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come— When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum— When the stars, dew-drops of the summer sky, Watch over all with soft and loving eye— While the leaves quiver By the lone river, And the quiet heart From depths doth call And garners all— Earth grows a shadow Forgotten whole, And heaven lives In the blessed soul!

High thoughts They are with me When, deep within the bosom of the forest, Thy mourning melody Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle! pourest. When the young sunbeams glance among the trees— When on the ear comes the soft song of bees— When every branch has its own favorite bird And songs of summer from each thicket heard!— Where the owl flitteth, Where the roe sitteth, And holiness Seems sleeping there; While nature's prayer Goes up to heaven In purity, Till all is glory And joy to me!

High thoughts! They are my own When I am resting on a mountain's bosom, And see below me strown The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom; When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow, When I can follow every fitful shadow— When I can watch the winds among the corn, And see the waves along the forest borne; Where blue-bell and heather Are blooming together, And far doth come The Sabbath bell, O'er wood and fell; I hear the beating Of nature's heart: Heaven is before me— God! thou art.

High thoughts! They visit us In moments when the soul is dim and darkened; They come to bless, After the vanities to which we hearkened: When weariness hath come upon the spirit— (Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)— Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine, A winged thought which bids us not repine? In joy and gladness, In mirth and sadness, Come signs and tokens; Life's angel brings, Upon its wings, Those bright communings The soul doth keep— Those thoughts of heaven So pure and deep!

ROBERT NICOLL.

* * * * *

NEARER HOME.

One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home to-day That I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream. That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith!

PHOEBE CARY.

* * * * *

MEETING ABOVE.

If yon bright stars which gem the night Be each a blissful dwelling-sphere Where kindred spirits reunite Whom death hath torn asunder here,— How sweet it were at once to die, To leave this blighted orb afar! Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star.

But oh, how dark, how drear, how lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one, We failed to meet the loved of this! If there no more the ties shall twine Which death's cold hand alone could sever, Ah, would those stars in mockery shine, More joyless, as they shine forever!

It cannot be,—each hope, each fear That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now. There, Lord, thy wayworn saints shall find The bliss for which they longed before; And holiest sympathies shall bind Thine own to thee forevermore.

O Jesus, bring us to that rest, Where all the ransomed shall be found, In thine eternal fulness blest, While ages roll their cycles round.

WILLIAM LEGGETT.

* * * * *

MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD.

My days among the dead are passed; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the dead; with them I live in long-past years; Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead; anon My place with them will be. And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity: Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

* * * * *

THE FUTURE LIFE.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given; My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last. Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar—that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this— The wisdom which is love—till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

That clime is not like this dull clime of ours; All, all is brightness there; A sweeter influence breathes around its flowers, And a benigner air. No calm below is like that calm above, No region here is like that realm of love; Earth's softest spring ne'er shed so soft a light, Earth's brightest summer never shone so bright.

That sky is not like this sad sky of ours, Tinged with earth's change and care; No shadow dims it, and no rain-cloud lowers; No broken sunshine there: One everlasting stretch of azure pours Its stainless splendor o'er those sinless shores; For there Jehovah shines with heavenly ray, And Jesus reigns, dispensing endless day.

The dwellers there are not like those of earth,— No mortal stain they bear,— And yet they seem of kindred blood and birth; Whence and how came they there? Earth was their native soil; from sin and shame, Through tribulation, they to glory came; Bond-slaves delivered from sin's crushing load, Brands plucked from burning by the hand of God.

Yon robes of theirs are not like those below; No angel's half so bright; Whence came that beauty, whence that living glow, And whence that radiant white? Washed in the blood of the atoning Lamb, Fair as the light these robes of theirs became; And now, all tears wiped off from every eye, They wander where the freshest pastures lie, Through all the nightless day of that unfading sky!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE TWO WORLDS.

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, Whose magic joys we shall not see again; Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering shore. Ah, truly breathed we there Intoxicating air— Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of Nevermore.

The lover there drank her delicious breath Whose love has yielded since to change or death; The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er. Alas! too soon have fled The irreclaimable dead: We see them—visions strange—amid the Nevermore.

The merrysome maiden used to sing— The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling To temples long clay-cold: to the very core They strike our weary hearts, As some vexed memory starts From that long faded land—the realm of Nevermore.

It is perpetual summer there. But here Sadly may we remember rivers clear, And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. For brighter bells and bluer, For tenderer hearts and truer People that happy land—the realm of Nevermore.

Upon the frontier of this shadowy land We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand: What realm lies forward, with its happier store Of forests green and deep, Of valleys hushed in sleep, And lakes most peaceful? 'Tis the land of Evermore.

Very far off its marble cities seem— Very far off—beyond our sensual dream— Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar; Yet does the turbulent surge Howl on its very verge. One moment—and we breathe within the Evermore.

They whom we loved and lost so long ago Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe— Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carollings soar. Eternal peace have they; God wipes their tears away: They drink that river of life which flows from Evermore.

Thither we hasten through these regions dim, But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore Our lightened hearts shall know The life of long ago: The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for Evermore.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

* * * * *

THE ANSWER.

"Who would not go" With buoyant steps, to gain that blessed portal, Which opens to the land we long to know? Where shall be satisfied the soul's immortal, Where we shall drop the wearying and the woe In resting so?

"Ah, who would fear?" Since, sometimes through the distant pearly portal, Unclosing to some happy soul a-near, We catch a gleam of glorious light immortal, And strains of heavenly music faintly hear, Breathing good cheer!

"Who would endure" To walk in doubt and darkness with misgiving, When he whose tender promises are sure— The Crucified, the Lord, the Ever-living— Keeps us those "mansions" evermore secure By waters pure?

Oh, wondrous land! Fairer than all our spirit's fairest dreaming: "Eye hath not seen," no heart can understand The things prepared, the cloudless radiance streaming. How longingly we wait our Lord's command— His opening hand!

O dear ones there! Whose voices, hushed, have left our pathway lonely, We come, erelong, your blessed home to share; We take the guiding hand, we trust it only— Seeing, by faith, beyond this clouded air, That land so fair!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

FOREVER WITH THE LORD.

Forever with the Lord! Amen! so let it be! Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality.

Here in the body pent, Absent from him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home.

My Father's house on high, Home of my soul! how near, At times, to faith's foreseeing eye Thy golden gates appear!

Ah! then my spirit faints To reach the land I love, The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above!

Yet clouds will intervene, And all my prospect flies; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies.

Anon the clouds depart, The winds and waters cease; While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart Expands the bow of peace!

Beneath its glowing arch, Along the hallowed ground, I see cherubic armies march, A camp of fire around.

I hear at morn and even, At noon and midnight hour, The choral harmonies of heaven Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower.

Then, then I feel that he, Remembered or forgot, The Lord, is never far from me, Though I perceive him not.

In darkness as in light, Hidden alike from view, I sleep, I wake, as in his sight Who looks all nature through.

All that I am, have been, All that I yet may be, He sees at once, as he hath seen, And shall forever see.

"Forever with the Lord;" Father, if 'tis thy will, The promise of that faithful word Unto thy child fulfil!

So, when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain, By death I shall escape from death, And life eternal gain.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

* * * * *

TO HEAVEN APPROACHED A SUFI SAINT.

To heaven approached a Sufi Saint, From groping in the darkness late, And, tapping timidly and faint, Besought admission at God's gate.

Said God, "Who seeks to enter here?" "'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear. "If it be thou, without abide."

Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, To bear the scourging of life's rods; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's.

He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked.

Asked God, "Who now is at the door?" "It is thyself, beloved Lord," Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, But clasped and rapt in his reward.

From the Persian of JALLAL-AD-DIN RUMI.

Translation of WILLIAM R. ALGER.

* * * * *

MATTER AND MAN IMMORTAL.

FROM "NIGHT THOUGHTS," NIGHT VI.

As in a wheel, all sinks, to reascend: Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. With this minute distinction, emblems just, Nature revolves, but man advances; both Eternal, that a circle, this a line. That gravitates, this soars. Th' aspiring soul, Ardent, and tremulous, like flame, ascends, Zeal and humility her wings, to Heaven. The world of matter, with its various forms, All dies into new life. Life born from death Rolls the vast mass, and shall for ever roll. No single atom, once in being, lost, With change of counsel charges the Most High. What hence infers Lorenzo? Can it be? Matter immortal? And shall spirit die? Above the nobler, shall less noble rise? Shall man alone, for whom all else revives, No resurrection know? Shall man alone, Imperial man! be sown in barren ground, Less privileged than grain, on which he feeds?

* * * * *

Look Nature through, 'tis neat gradation all. By what minute degrees her scale ascends! Each middle nature joined at each extreme, To that above is joined, to that beneath; Parts, into parts reciprocally shot, Abhor divorce: what love of union reigns! Here, dormant matter waits a call to life; Half-life, half-death, joined there; here life and sense; There, sense from reason steals a glimmering ray; Reason shines out in man. But how preserved The chain unbroken upward, to the realms Of incorporeal life? those realms of bliss Where death hath no dominion? Grant a make Half-mortal, half-immortal; earthy, part, And part ethereal; grant the soul of man Eternal; or in man the series ends. Wide yawns the gap; connection is no more; Checked Reason halts; her next step wants support; Striving to climb, she tumbles from her scheme.

DR. EDWARD YOUNG.

* * * * *

LIFE.

FROM "FESTUS," SCENE "A COUNTRY TOWN."

FESTUS.— Oh! there is A life to come, or all's a dream.

LUCIFER.— And all May be a dream. Thou seest in thine, men, deeds, Clear, moving, full of speech and order; then Why may not all this world be but a dream Of God's? Fear not! Some morning God may waken.

FESTUS.—I would it were. This life's a mystery. The value of a thought cannot be told; But it is clearly worth a thousand lives Like many men's. And yet men love to live As if mere life were worth their living for. What but perdition will it be to most? Life's more than breath and the quick round of blood; It is a great spirit and a busy heart. The coward and the small in soul scarce do live. One generous feeling—one great thought—one deed Of good, ere night, would make life longer seem Than if each year might number a thousand days, Spent as is this by nations of mankind. We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most—feels the noblest—acts the best. Life's but a means unto an end—that end Beginning, mean, and end to all things—God.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

O beauteous God! uncircumscribed treasure Of an eternal pleasure! Thy throne is seated far Above the highest star, Where thou preparest a glorious place, Within the brightness of thy face, For every spirit To inherit That builds his hopes upon thy merit, And loves thee with a holy charity. What ravished heart, seraphic tongue, or eyes Clear as the morning rise, Can speak, or think, or see That bright eternity, Where the great King's transparent throne Is of an entire jasper stone? There the eye O' the chrysolite, And a sky Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase,— And above all thy holy face,— Makes an eternal charity. When thou thy jewels up dost bind, that day Remember us, we pray,— That where the beryl lies, And the crystal 'bove the skies, There thou mayest appoint us place Within the brightness of thy face,— And our soul In the scroll Of life and blissfulness enroll, That we may praise thee to eternity. Allelujah!

JEREMY TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

Father! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound; And to our eyes the vision is denied. We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewildered falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

JONES VERY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, Beyond death's cloudy portal, There is a land where beauty never dies, Where love becomes immortal;

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade, Whose fields are ever vernal; Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, But blooms for aye eternal.

We may know how sweet its balmy air, How bright and fair its flowers; We may not hear the songs that echo there, Through those enchanted bowers.

The city's shining towers we may not see With our dim earthly vision, For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key That opes the gates elysian.

But sometimes, when adown the western sky A fiery sunset lingers, Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, Unlocked by unseen fingers.

And while they stand a moment half ajar, Gleams from the inner glory Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, And half reveal the story.

O land unknown! O land of love divine! Father, all-wise, eternal! O, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine Into those pastures vernal!

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.

* * * * *

TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS.

Tell me, ye winged winds, That round my pathway roar, Do ye not know some spot Where mortals weep no more? Some lone and pleasant dell, Some valley in the west, Where, free from toil and pain, The weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sighed for pity as it answered,—"No."

Tell me, thou mighty deep. Whose billows round me play, Know'st thou some favored spot, Some island far away, Where weary man may find The bliss for which he sighs,— Where sorrow never lives, And friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer,—"No."

And thou, serenest moon, That, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth, Asleep in night's embrace; Tell me, in all thy round Hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man May find a happier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet but sad, responded,—"No."

Tell me, my secret soul, O, tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place From sorrow, sin, and death? Is there no happy spot Where mortals may be blest, Where grief may find a balm, And weariness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given, Waved their bright wings, and whispered,—"Yes, in heaven!"

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers; Death, like a narrow sea, divides This heavenly land from ours.

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood Stand dressed in living green; So to the Jews old Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled between.

But timorous mortals start and shrink To cross this narrow sea, And linger shivering on the brink, And fear to launch away.

Oh! could we make our doubts remove, Those gloomy doubts that rise, And see the Canaan that we love With unbeclouded eyes—

Could we but climb where Moses stood, And view the landscape o'er, Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood Should fright us from the shore.

ISAAC WATTS.

* * * * *

PEACE.

My soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry, All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger, Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend, And (O my soul awake!) Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of peace— The rose that cannot wither— Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But one who never changes— Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

* * * * *

STAR-MIST.

FROM "STARS."

More and more stars! behold yon hazy arch Spanning the vault on high, By planets traversed in majestic march, Seeming to earth's dull eye A breath of gleaming air: but take thou wing Of Faith and upward spring:— Into a thousand stars the misty light Will part; each star a world with its own day and night.

Not otherwise of yonder Saintly host Upon the glorious shore Deem thou. He marks them all, not one is lost; By name He counts them o'er. Full many a soul, to man's dim praise unknown, May on its glory throne As brightly shine, and prove as strong in prayer As theirs, whose separate beams shoot keenest thro' this air.

JOHN KEBLE.

* * * * *

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

FROM "THE FAERIE QUEENE," BOOK II. CANTO 8.

And is there care in heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is:—else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace Of Highest God! that loves his creatures so, And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward; O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard!

EDMUND SPENSER.

* * * * *

SAINT AGNES.

Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snow-drop of the year That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Through all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll backhand far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbath of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide— A light upon the shining sea— The Bridegroom with his bride!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

PRAISE OF THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY.

[The poem De Contemptu Mundi was written by Bernard de Morlaix, Monk of Cluni. The translation following is of a portion of the poem distinguished by the sub-title "Laus Patriae Coelestis."]

The world is very evil, The times are waxing late; Be sober and keep vigil, The Judge is at the gate,— The Judge that comes in mercy, The Judge that comes with might, To terminate the evil, To diadem the right. When the just and gentle Monarch Shall summon from the tomb, Let man, the guilty, tremble, For Man, the God, shall doom!

Arise, arise, good Christian, Let right to wrong succeed; Let penitential sorrow To heavenly gladness lead,— To the light that hath no evening, That knows nor moon nor sun, The light so new and golden, The light that is but one.

And when the Sole-Begotten Shall render up once more The kingdom to the Father, Whose own it was before, Then glory yet unheard of Shall shed abroad its ray, Resolving all enigmas, An endless Sabbath-day.

For thee, O dear, dear Country! Mine eyes their vigils keep; For very love, beholding Thy happy name, they weep. The mention of thy glory Is unction to the breast, And medicine in sickness, And love, and life, and rest.

O one, O only Mansion! O Paradise of Joy, Where tears are ever banished, And smiles have no alloy! Beside thy living waters All plants are, great and small, The cedar of the forest, The hyssop of the wall; With jaspers glow thy bulwarks, Thy streets with emeralds blaze, The sardius and the topaz Unite in thee their rays; Thine ageless walls are bonded With amethyst unpriced; Thy Saints build up its fabric, And the corner-stone is Christ.

The Cross is all thy splendor, The Crucified thy praise; His laud and benediction Thy ransomed people raise: "Jesus, the gem of Beauty, True God and Man," they sing, "The never-failing Garden, The ever-golden Ring; The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, The Guardian of his Court; The Day-star of Salvation, The Porter and the Port!"

Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! Thou hast no time, bright day! Dear fountain of refreshment To pilgrims far away! Upon the Rock of Ages They raise thy holy tower; Thine is the victor's laurel, And thine the golden dower!

Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, O Bride that know'st no guile, The Prince's sweetest kisses, The Prince's loveliest smile; Unfading lilies, bracelets Of living pearl thine own; The Lamb is ever near thee, The Bridegroom thine alone. The Crown is he to guerdon, The Buckler to protect, And he himself the Mansion, And he the Architect.

The only art thou needest— Thanksgiving for thy lot; The only joy thou seekest— The Life where Death is not. And all thine endless leisure, In sweetest accents, sings The ill that was thy merit, The wealth that is thy King's!

Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed. I know not, O I know not, What social joys are there! What radiancy of glory, What light beyond compare!

And when I fain would sing them, My spirit fails and faints; And vainly would it image The assembly of the Saints.

They stand, those halls of Zion, Conjubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng; The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the Blessed Are decked in glorious sheen.

There is the Throne of David, And there, from care released, The song of them that triumph, The shout of them that feast; And they who, with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, Forever and forever Are clad in robes of white!

O holy, placid harp-notes Of that eternal hymn! O sacred, sweet reflection, And peace of Seraphim! O thirst, forever ardent, Yet evermore content! O true peculiar vision Of God cunctipotent! Ye know the many mansions For many a glorious name, And divers retributions That divers merits claim; For midst the constellations That deck our earthly sky, This star than that is brighter— And so it is on high.

Jerusalem the glorious! The glory of the Elect! O dear and future vision That eager hearts expect! Even now by faith I see thee, Even here thy walls discern; To thee my thoughts are kindled, And strive, and pant, and yearn.

Jerusalem the only, That look'st from heaven below, In thee is all my glory, In me is all my woe; And though my body may not, My spirit seeks thee fain, Till flesh and earth return me To earth and flesh again.

O none can tell thy bulwarks, How gloriously they rise! O none can tell thy capitals Of beautiful device! Thy loveliness oppresses All human thought and heart; And none, O peace, O Zion, Can sing thee as thou art!

New mansion of new people, Whom God's own love and light Promote, increase, make holy, Identify, unite! Thou City of the Angels! Thou City of the Lord! Whose everlasting music Is the glorious decachord!

And there the band of Prophets United praise ascribes, And there the twelvefold chorus Of Israel's ransomed tribes. The lily-beds of virgins, The roses' martyr-glow, The cohort of the Fathers Who kept the faith below.

And there the Sole-Begotten Is Lord in regal state,— He, Judah's mystic Lion, He, Lamb Immaculate. O fields that know no sorrow! O state that fears no strife! O princely bowers! O land of flowers! O realm and home of Life!

Jerusalem, exulting On that securest shore, I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, And love thee evermore! I ask not for my merit, I seek not to deny My merit is destruction, A child of wrath am I; But yet with faith I venture And hope upon my way; For those perennial guerdons I labor night and day.

The best and dearest Father, Who made me and who saved, Bore with me in defilement, And from defilement laved, When in his strength I struggle, For very joy I leap, When in my sin I totter, I weep, or try to weep: Then grace, sweet grace celestial, Shall all its love display, And David's Royal Fountain Purge every sin away.

O mine, my golden Zion! O lovelier far than gold, With laurel-girt battalions, And safe victorious fold! O sweet and blessed Country, Shall I ever see thy face? O sweet and blessed Country, Shall I ever win thy grace? I have the hope within me To comfort and to bless! Shall I ever win the prize itself? O tell me, tell me, Yes!

Exult! O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art! Exult, O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art!

From the Latin of BERNARD DE MORLAIX.

Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.

* * * * *

THE NEW JERUSALEM;

OR, THE SOUL'S BREATHING AFTER THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

"Since Christ's fair truth needs no man's art, Take this rude song in better part."

O mother dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end— Thy joys when shall I see? O happy harbor of God's saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In thee no sorrows can be found— No grief, no care, no toil.

In thee no sickness is at all, No hurt, nor any sore; There is no death nor ugly night, But life for evermore. No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, No cloud nor darksome night, But every soul shines as the sun— For God himself gives light.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There envy bears no sway; There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat. But pleasures every way. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Would God I were in thee! Oh! that my sorrows had an end, Thy joys that I might see!

No pains, no pangs, no grieving griefs, No woful night is there; No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard— No well-away, no fear. Jerusalem the city is Of God our king alone; The Lamb of God, the light thereof, Sits there upon His throne.

O God! that I Jerusalem With speed may go behold! For why? the pleasures there abound Which here cannot be told. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine— With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, Surpassing pure and fine.

Thy houses are of ivory, Thy windows crystal clear, Thy streets are laid with beaten gold— There angels do appear. Thy walls are made of precious stone, Thy bulwarks diamond square, Thy gates are made of orient pearl— O God! if I were there!

Within thy gates no thing can come That is not passing clean; No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, No filth may there be seen. Jehovah, Lord, now come away, And end my griefs and plaints— Take me to Thy Jerusalem, And place me with Thy saints!

Who there are crowned with glory great, And see God face to face, They triumph still, and aye rejoice— Most happy is their case. But we that are in banishment, Continually do moan; We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep— Perpetually we groan.

Our sweetness mixed is with gall, Our pleasures are but pain, Our joys not worth the looking on— Our sorrows aye remain. But there they live in such delight, Such pleasure and such play, That unto them a thousand years Seems but as yesterday.

O my sweet home, Jerusalem! Thy joys when shall I see— The King sitting upon His throne, And thy felicity? Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, So wonderfully rare, Are furnished with all kinds of fruit, Most beautifully fair.

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green; There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. There cinnamon and sugar grow, There nard and balm abound; No tongue can tell, no heart can think, The pleasures there are found.

There nectar and ambrosia spring— There music's ever sweet; There many a fair and dainty thing Are trod down under feet. Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound, The flood of life doth flow; Upon the banks, on every side, The trees of life do grow.

These trees each month yield ripened fruit— For evermore they spring; And all the nations of the world To thee their honors bring. Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place, Full sore I long to see; Oh! that my sorrows had an end, That I might dwell in thee!

There David stands, with harp in hand, As master of the choir; A thousand times that man were blest That might his music hear. There Mary sings "Magnificat," With tunes surpassing sweet; And all the virgins bear their part, Singing around her feet.

"Te Deum," doth Saint Ambrose sing, Saint Austin doth the like; Old Simeon and Zacharie Have not their songs to seek. There Magdalene hath left her moan, And cheerfully doth sing, With all blest saints whose harmony Through every street doth ring.

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Thy joys fain would I see; Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, And take me home to Thee; Oh! paint Thy name on my forehead, And take me hence away, That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, And sing Thy praises aye.

Jerusalem, the happy home— Jehovah's throne on high! O sacred city, queen, and wife Of Christ eternally! O comely queen with glory clad, With honor and degree, All fair thou art, exceeding bright— No spot there is in thee!

I long to see Jerusalem, The comfort of us all; For thou art fair and beautiful— None ill can thee befall. In thee, Jerusalem, I say, No darkness dare appear— No night, no shade, no winter foul— No time doth alter there.

No candle needs, no moon to shine, No glittering star to light; For Christ, the king of righteousness, For ever shineth bright. A lamb unspotted, white and pure, To thee doth stand in lieu Of light—so great the glory is Thine heavenly king to view.

He is the King of kings beset In midst His servants' sight: And they, His happy household all, Do serve Him day and night. There, there the choir of angels sing— There the supernal sort Of citizens, which hence are rid From dangers deep, do sport.

There be the prudent prophets all, The apostles six and six, The glorious martyrs in a row, And confessors betwixt. There doth the crew of righteous men And matrons all consist— Young men and maids that here on earth Their pleasures did resist.

The sheep and lambs, that hardly 'scaped The snare of death and hell, Triumph in joy eternally, Whereof no tongue can tell; And though the glory of each one Doth differ in degree, Yet is the joy of all alike And common, as we see.

There love and charity do reign, And Christ is all in all, Whom they most perfectly behold In joy celestial. They love, they praise—they praise, they love; They "Holy, holy," cry; They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, But laud continually.

Oh! happy thousand times were I, If, after wretched days, I might with listening ears conceive Those heavenly songs of praise, Which to the eternal king are sung By happy wights above— By saved souls and angels sweet, Who love the God of love.

Oh! passing happy were my state, Might I be worthy found To wait upon my God and king, His praises there to sound; And to enjoy my Christ above, His favor and His grace, According to His promise made, Which here I interlace:

"O Father dear," quoth He, "let them Which Thou hast put of old To me, be there where lo! I am— Thy glory to behold; Which I with Thee, before the world Was made in perfect wise, Have had—from whence the fountain great Of glory doth arise."

Again: "If any man will serve Thee, let him follow me; For where I am, he there, right sure, Then shall my servant be." And still: "If any man loves me, Him loves my Father dear, Whom I do love—to him myself In glory will appear."

Lord, take away my misery, That then I may be bold With Thee, in Thy Jerusalem, Thy glory to behold; And so in Zion see my king, My love, my Lord, my all— Where now as in a glass I see, There face to face I shall.

Oh! blessed are the pure in heart— Their sovereign they shall see; O ye most happy, heavenly wights, Which of God's household be! O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, These gins and fetters strong; For I have dwelt within the tents Of Kedar over long.

Yet search me, Lord, and find me out! Fetch me Thy fold unto, That all Thy angels may rejoice, While all Thy will I do. O mother dear! Jerusalem! When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see?

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, To quit me from all strife, That to Thy hill I may attain, And dwell there all my life— With cherubim and seraphim And holy souls of men, To sing Thy praise, O God of hosts! Forever and amen!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

PARADISE.

O Paradise, O Paradise, Who doth not crave for rest, Who would not seek the happy land Where they that loved are blest? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, The world is growing old; Who would not be at rest and free Where love is never cold? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, Wherefore doth death delay?— Bright death, that is the welcome dawn Of our eternal day; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, 'Tis weary waiting here; I long to be where Jesus is, To feel, to see him near; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, I want to sin no more, I want to be as pure on earth As on thy spotless shore; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, I greatly long to see The special place my dearest Lord Is destining for me; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, I feel 'twill not be long; Patience! I almost think I hear Faint fragments of thy song; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.



FROM "THE DIVINE COMEDY."

* * * * *

HELL.

INSCRIPTION OVER THE GATE.

CANTO III.

"Through me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain: Through me among the people lost for aye. Justice the founder of my fabric moved: To rear me was the task of power divine, Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. Before me things create were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

* * * * *

PURGATORY.

PRAYER.

CANTO VI.

When I was freed From all those spirits, who prayed for others' prayers To hasten on their state of blessedness; Straight I began: "O thou, my luminary! It seems expressly in thy text denied, That Heaven's supreme decree can ever bend To supplication; yet with this design Do these entreat. Can then their hope be vain? Or is thy saying not to be revealed?" He thus to me: "Both what I write is plain, And these deceived not in their hope; if well Thy mind consider, that the sacred height Of judgment doth not stoop, because love's flame In a short moment all fulfils, which he, Who sojourns here, in right should satisfy. Besides, when I this point concluded thus, By praying no defect could be supplied: Because the prayer had none access to God. Yet in this deep suspicion rest thou not Contented, unless she assure thee so, Who betwixt truth and mind infuses light: I know not if thou take me right; I mean Beatrice. Her thou shalt behold above, Upon this mountain's crown, fair seat of joy."

* * * * *

PRAYER OF PENITENTS.

CANTO XI.

"O thou Almighty Father! who dost make The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confined, But that, with love intenser, there thou view'st Thy primal effluence; hallowed be thy name: Join, each created being, to extol Thy might; for worthy humblest thanks and praise Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom's peace Come unto us; for we, unless it come, With all our striving, thither tend in vain. As, of their will, the angels unto thee Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne With loud hosannas; so of theirs be done By saintly men on earth. Grant us, this day, Our daily manna, without which he roams Through this rough desert retrograde, who most Toils to advance his steps. As we to each Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou Benign, and of our merit take no count. 'Gainst the old adversary, prove thou not Our virtue, easily subdued; but free From his incitements, and defeat his wiles. This last petition, dearest Lord! is made Not for ourselves; since that were needless now; But for their sakes who after us remain."

* * * * *

MAN'S FREE-WILL.

CANTO XVI.

"Ye, who live, Do so each cause refer to heaven above, E'en as its motion, of necessity, Drew with it all that moves. If this were so, Free choice in you were none; nor justice would There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill. Your movements have their primal bent from heaven; Not all: yet said I all; what then ensues? Light have ye still to follow evil or good, And of the will free power, which, if it stand Firm and unwearied in Heaven's first assay, Conquers at last, so it be cherished well, Triumphant over all. To mightier force, To better nature subject, ye abide Free, not constrained by that which forms in you The reasoning mind uninfluenced of the stars. If then the present race of mankind err, Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there."

* * * * *

FIRE OF PURIFICATION.

CANTO XXVII.

Now was the sun so stationed, as when first His early radiance quivers on the heights, Where streamed his Maker's blood; while Libra hangs Above Hesperian Ebro; and new fires, Meridian, flash on Ganges' yellow tide. So day was sinking, when the angel of God Appeared before us. Joy was in his mien. Forth of the flame he stood upon the brink; And with a voice, whose lively clearness far Surpassed our human, "Blessed are the pure In heart," he sang: then near him as we came, "Go ye not further, holy spirits!" he cried, "Ere the fire pierce you: enter in; and list Attentive to the song ye hear from thence." I, when I heard his saying, was as one Laid in the grave. My hands together clasped, And upward stretching, on the fire I looked; And busy fancy conjured up the forms Erewhile beheld alive consumed in flames. The escorting spirits turned with gentle looks Toward me; and the Mantuan spake: "My son, Here torment thou may'st feel, but canst not death. Remember thee, remember thee, if I Safe e'en on Geryon brought thee; now I come More near to God, wilt thou not trust me now? Of this be sure; though in its womb that flame A thousand years contained thee, from thy head No hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth, Approach; and with thy hands thy vesture's hem Stretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief. Lay now all fear, oh! lay all fear aside. Turn hither, and come onward undismayed." I still, though conscience urged, no step advanced.

* * * * *

Into the fire before me then he walked: And Statius, who erewhile no little space Had parted us, he prayed to come behind. I would have cast me into molten glass To cool me, when I entered; so intense Raged the conflagrant mass. The sire beloved, To comfort me, as he proceeded, still Of Beatrice talked. "Her eyes," saith he, "E'en now I seem to view." From the other side A voice, that sang, did guide us; and the voice Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth, There where the path led upward. "Come," we heard, "Come, blessed of my Father." Such the sounds, That hailed us from within a light, which shone So radiant, I could not endure the view. "The sun," it added, "hastes: and evening comes. Delay not: ere the western sky is hung With blackness, strive ye for the pass." Our way Upright within the rock arose, and faced Such part of heaven, that from before my steps The beams were shrouded of the sinking sun.

* * * * *

PARADISE.

SIN AND REDEMPTION.

CANTO VII.

What I have heard, Is plain, thou say'st: but wherefore God this way For our redemption chose, eludes my search. "Brother! no eye of man not perfected, Nor fully ripened in the flame of love, May fathom this decree. It is a mark, In sooth, much aimed at, and but little kenned: And I will therefore show thee why such way Was worthiest. The celestial love, that spurns All envying in its bounty, in itself With such effulgence blazeth, as sends forth All beauteous things eternal. What distils Immediate thence, no end of being knows; Bearing its seal immutably imprest. Whatever thence immediate falls, is free, Free wholly, uncontrollable by power Of each thing new: by such conformity More grateful to its author, whose bright beams, Though all partake their shining, yet in those Are liveliest, which resemble him the most. These tokens of pre-eminence on man Largely bestowed, if any of them fail, He needs must forfeit his nobility, No longer stainless. Sin alone is that, Which doth disfranchise him, and make unlike To the chief good; for that its light in him Is darkened. And to dignity thus lost Is no return; unless, where guilt makes void, He for ill pleasure pay with equal pain. Your nature, which entirely in its seed Transgressed, from these distinctions fell, no less Than from its state in Paradise; nor means Found on recovery (search all methods out As strictly as thou may) save one of these, The only fords were left through which to wade: Either, that God had of his courtesy Released him merely; or else, man himself For his own folly by himself atoned. "Fix now thine eye, intently as thou canst, On the everlasting counsel; and explore, Instructed by my words, the dread abyss. "Man in himself had ever lacked the means Of satisfaction, for he could not stoop Obeying, in humility so low, As high, he, disobeying, thought to soar: And, for this reason, he had vainly tried, Out of his own sufficiency, to pay The rigid satisfaction. Then behoved That God should by his own ways lead him back Unto the life, from whence he fell, restored: By both his ways, I mean, or one alone. But since the deed is ever prized the more. The more the doer's good intent appears; Goodness celestial, whose broad signature Is on the universe, of all its ways To raise ye up, was fain to leave out none. Nor aught so vast or so magnificent, Either for him who gave or who received, Between the last night and the primal day, Was or can be. For God more bounty showed, Giving himself to make man capable Of his return to life, than had the terms Been mere and unconditional release. And for his justice, every method else Were all too scant, had not the Son of God Humbled himself to put on mortal flesh."

* * * * *

THE TRIUMPH OF CHRIST.

CANTO XIV.

And lo! forthwith there rose up round about A lustre, over that already there; Of equal clearness, like the brightening up Of the horizon. As at evening hour Of twilight, new appearances through heaven Peer with faint glimmer, doubtfully descried; So, there, new substances methought, began To rise in view beyond the other twain, And wheeling, sweep their ampler circuit wide. O genuine glitter of eternal Beam! With what a sudden whiteness did it flow, O'erpowering vision in me. But so fair, So passing lovely, Beatrice showed, Mind cannot follow it, nor words express Her infinite sweetness. Thence mine eyes regained Power to look up; and I beheld myself, Sole with my lady, to more lofty bliss Translated: for the star, with warmer smile Impurpled, well denoted our ascent. With all the heart, and with that tongue which speaks The same in all, an holocaust I made To God befitting the new grace vouchsafed. And from my bosom had not yet upsteamed The fuming of that incense, when I knew The rite accepted. With such mighty sheen And mantling crimson, in two listed rays The splendors shot before me, that I cried, "God of Sabaoth! that dost prank them thus!" As leads the galaxy from pole to pole, Distinguished into greater lights and less, Its pathway, which the wisest fail to spell; So thickly studded, in the depth of Mars, Those rays described the venerable sign, That quadrants in the round conjoining frame. Here memory mocks the toil of genius. Christ Beamed on that cross; and pattern fails me now. But whoso takes his cross, and follows Christ, Will pardon me for that I leave untold, When in the fleckered dawning he shall spy The glitterance of Christ. From horn to horn, And 'tween the summit and the base, did move Lights, scintillating, as they met and passed. Thus oft are seen with ever-changeful glance, Straight or athwart, now rapid and now slow, The atomies of bodies, long or short, To move along the sunbeam, whose slant line Checkers the shadow interposed by art Against the noontide heat. And as the chime Of minstrel music, dulcimer, and harp With many strings, a pleasant dinning makes To him, who heareth not distinct the note; So from the lights, which there appeared to me, Gathered along the cross a melody, That, indistinctly heard, with ravishment Possessed me. Yet I marked it was a hymn Of lofty praises; for there came to me "Arise," and "Conquer," as to one who hears And comprehends not. Me such ecstasy O'ercame, that never, till that hour, was thing That held me in so sweet imprisonment.

* * * * *

THE SAINTS IN GLORY.

CANTO XXXI.

In fashion, as a snow-white rose, lay then Before my view the saintly multitude, Which is his own blood Christ espoused. Meanwhile, That other host, that soar aloft to gaze And celebrate his glory, whom they love, Hovered around; and, like a troop of bees, Amid the vernal sweets alighting now, Now, clustering, where their fragrant labor glows, Flew downward to the mighty flower, or rose From the redundant petals, streaming back Unto the steadfast dwelling of their joy. Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold: The rest was whiter than the driven snow; And, as they flitted down into the flower, From range to range, fanning their plumy loins, Whispered the peace and ardor, which they won From that soft winnowing. Shadow none, the vast Interposition of such numerous flight Cast, from above, upon the flower, or view Obstructed aught. For, through the universe, Wherever merited, celestial light Glides freely, and no obstacle prevents. All there, who reign in safety and in bliss, Ages long past or new, on one sole mark Their love and vision fixed. O trinal beam Of individual star, that charm'st them thus! Vouchsafe one glance to gild our storm below. If the grim brood, from Arctic shores that roamed (Where Helice forever, as she wheels, Sparkles a mother's fondness on her son), Stood in mute wonder mid the works of Rome, When to their view the Lateran arose In greatness more than earthly; I, who then From human to divine had passed, from time Unto eternity, and out of Florence To justice and to truth, how might I chuse But marvel too? 'Twixt gladness and amaze, In sooth, no will had I to utter aught, Or hear. And, as a pilgrim, when he rests Within the temple of his vow, looks round In breathless awe, and hopes some time to tell Of all its goodly state; e'en so mine eyes Coursed up and down along the living light, Now low, and now aloft, and now around, Visiting every step. Looks I beheld, Where charity in soft persuasion sat; Smiles from within, and radiance from above; And, in each gesture, grace and honor high. So roved my ken, and in its general form All Paradise surveyed.

DANTE.

Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.

THE END