Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more, The best and the last ! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears, For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall change, shall become, first a piece out of pain, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, ROBERT BROWNING. DIM THE GOLDEN GATE. IM shadows gather thickly round, and up the misty stair they climb, The cloudy stair that upward leads to where the closed portals shine, Round which the kneeling spirits wait the opening of the Golden Gate. And some with eager longing go, still pressing forward, hand in hand, And some, with weary step and slow, look back where their Beloved stand Yet up the misty stair they climb, led onward by the Angel Time. As unseen hands roll back the doors, the light that floods the very air Is but the shadow from within of the great glory hidden there And morn and eve, and soon and late, the shadows pass within the gate. As one by one they enter in, and the stern portals close once more, The halo seems to linger round those kneeling closest to the door: The joy that lightened from that place shines still upon the watcher's face. The faint low echo that we hear of far-off music seems to fill The silent air with love and fear, and the world's clamours all grow still, Until the portals close again and leave us toiling on in pain. Complain not that the way is long- what road is. weary that leads there? But let the Angel take thy hand, and lead thee misty stair, up the And then with beating heart await, the opening of the Golden Gate. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. THE RETREAT. HAPPY those early days when I Shined in my angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Before I taught my tongue to wound That I might once more reach that plain, But ah! my soul with too much stay HENRY VAUGHAN. ODE. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 'The Child is Father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.' I. HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and THERE stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. R II. The rainbow comes and goes, The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare, Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, h; That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. III. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, To me alone there came a thought of grief: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 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! |