On the heaven-heights of truth.
Oh, the soul keeps its youth

But the body faints sore, it is tried in the race,
It sinks from the chariot ere reaching the goal,
It is weak, it is cold,

The rein drops from its hold,

It sinks back, with the death in its face.
On, chariot! on, soul!

Ye are all the more fleet

Be alone at the goal

Of the strange and the sweet!

Love us,

IX.

God! love us, man! we believe, we achieve :

Let us love, let us live,

For the acts correspond;

We are glorious, and DIE:

And again on the knee of a mild Mystery

That smiles with a change,

Here we lie.

O DEATH, O BEYOND,

Thou art sweet, thou art strange !

A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE.

'discordance that can accord.'

ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.

A ROSE once grew within
A garden April-green,

In her loneness, in her loneness,
And the fairer for that oneness.

A white rose delicate

On a tall bough and straight:

Early comer, early comer,
Never waiting for the summer.

Her pretty gestes did win

South winds to let her in, In her loneness, in her loneness, All the fairer for that oneness.

For if I wait,' said she,

• Till time for roses be,

For the moss-rose and the musk-rose,
Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose,

'What glory then for me

In such a company ?—-
Roses plenty, roses plenty,
And one nightingale for twenty!

'Nay, let me in,' said she

'Before the rest are free,

In my loneness, in my loneness,
All the fairer for that oneness.

'For I would lonely stand
Uplifting my white hand,

On a mission, on a mission,
To declare the coming vision.

'Upon which lifted sign,

What worship will be mine!

What addressing, what caressing,
And what thanks and praise and blessing!

'A windlike joy will rush

Through every tree and bush,

Bending softly in affection
And spontaneous benediction.

'Insects, that only may

Live in a sunbright ray,

To my whiteness, to my whiteness,
Shall be drawn as to a brightness,-

'And every moth and bee,
Approach me reverently,

Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me,
Coronals of motioned glory.

'Three larks shall leave a cloud, To my whiter beauty vowed, Singing gladly all the moontide, Never waiting for the suntide.

'Ten nightingales shall flee
Their woods for love of me,

Singing sadly all the suntide,
Never waiting for the moontide.

'I ween the very skies

Will look down with surprise, When below on earth they see me With my starry aspect dreamy.

'And earth will call her flowers To hasten out of doors,

By their curtsies and sweet-smelling, To give grace to my foretelling.'

So praying, did she win

South winds to let her in, In her loneness, in her loneness, And the fairer for that oneness.

But ah,—alas for her!

No thing did minister
To her praises, to her praises,
More than might unto a daisy's.

No tree nor bush was seen
To boast a perfect green,
Scarcely having, scarcely having
One leaf broad enough for waving.

The little flies did crawl

Along the southern wall,

Faintly shifting, faintly shifting Wings scarce long enough for lifting.

The lark, too high or low,

I ween, did miss her so,
With his nest down in the gorses,
And his song in the star-courses.

The nightingale did please
To loiter beyond seas:

Guess him in the Happy islands,
Learning music from the silence!

Only the bee, forsooth,

Came in the place of both, Doing honour, doing honour To the honey-dews upon her.