Lifting up their green still tops
To the heaven of Heaven!
Oh, the sweet life-tree that drops
Shade like light across the river
Glorified in its for ever
Flowing from the Throne!
Oh, the shining holinesses
Of the thousand, thousand faces
God-sunned by the throned ONE!
And made intense with such a love,
That though I saw them turned above,
Each loving seemed for also me!
And, oh, the Unspeakable, the HE,
The manifest in secrecies,
Yet of mine own heart partaker,—
With the overcoming look
Of One who hath been once forsook,
And blessed the forsaker.
Mother, mother, let me go
Toward the Face that looketh so.
Through the mystic, wingèd Four
Whose are inward, outward eyes
Dark with light of mysteries,
And the restless evermore
'Holy, holy, holy,'-through
The sevenfold Lamps that burn in view
Of cherubim and seraphim,-
Through the four-and-twenty crowned
Stately elders, white around,
Suffer me to go to Him!
'Is your wisdom very wise, Mother, on the narrow earth,
Very happy, very worth
That I should stay to learn?
Are these air-corrupting sighs
Fashioned by unlearned breath?
Do the students' lamps that burn
All night, illumine death?
Mother, albeit this be so,
Loose thy prayer and let me go
Where that bright chief angel stands
Apart from all his brother bands,
Too glad for smiling, having bent
In angelic wilderment
O'er the depths of God, and brought
Reeling thence, one only thought
To fill his whole eternity.
He the teacher is for me!
He can teach what I would know-
Mother, mother, let me go!
'Can your poet make an Eden
No winter will undo,
And light a starry fire while heeding
His hearth's is burning too?
Drown in music the earth's din,
And keep his own wild soul within
The law of his own harmony?—
Mother, albeit this be so,
Let me to my Heaven go!
A little harp me waits thereby-
A harp whose strings are golden all,
And tuned to music spherical,
Hanging on the green life-tree
Where no willows ever be.
Shall I miss that harp of mine?
Mother, no!-the Eye divine
Turned upon it, makes it shine;
And when I touch it, poems sweet
Like separate souls shall fly from it,
Each to an immortal fytte.
We shall all be poets there,
Gazing on the chiefest Fair.
'Love! earth's love! and can we love
Fixedly where all things move?
Can the sinning love each other?
Mother, mother,
I tremble in thy close embrace,
I feel thy tears adown my face,
Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss-
O dreary earthly love!
Loose thy prayer and let me go
To the place which loving is
Yet not sad; and when is given
Escape to thee from this below,
Thou shalt behold me that I wait
For thee beside the happy Gate,
And silence shall be up in heaven
To hear our greeting kiss.
The nurse awakes in the morning sun,
And starts to see beside her bed
The lady with a grandeur spread
Like pathos o'er her face,-as one
God-satisfied and earth-undone.
The babe upon her arm was dead!
And the nurse could utter forth no cry,
She was awed by the calm in the mother's eye.
'Wake, nurse!' the lady said;
6 We
e are waking-he and I-
I, on earth, and he, in sky!
And thou must help me to o'erlay
With garment white, this little clay
Which needs no more our lullaby.
'I changed the cruel prayer I made,
And bowed my meekened face, and prayed
That God would do His will! and thus
He did it, nurse! He parted us.
And His sun shows victorious
The dead calm face,—and I am calm,
And Heaven is harkening a new psalm.
'This earthly noise is too anear,
Too loud, and will not let me hear
The little harp. My death will soon
Make silence.'
And a sense of tune,
A satisfied love meanwhile
Which nothing earthly could despoil,
Sang on within her soul.
Earth's tender and impassioned few,
Take courage to entrust your love
To Him so Named, who guards above
Its ends and shall fulfil!
Breaking the narrow prayers that may
Befit your narrow hearts, away
In His broad, loving will.
A KNIGHT of gallant deeds
And a young page at his side, From the holy war in Palestine Did slow and thoughtful ride,
As each were a palmer and told for beads The dews of the eventide.
'O young page,' said the knight,
A noble page art thou!
Thou fearest not to steep in blood
The curls upon thy brow;
And once in the tent, and twice in the fight, Didst ward me a mortal blow.'
'O brave knight,' said the page,
'Or ere we hither came,
We talked in tent, we talked in field,
Of the bloody battle-game;
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