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Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,
And weep not, though the Beautiful decay
And should the twilight darken into night,
There lie no cause for beauty's slow decay;
And do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain
One day, beyond all thoughts of praise,
A DAY'S RELEASE.
Imaged its fellows gone before,
The weakness pardoned o'er and o'er ;
The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt,
For joy's well-nigh forgotten life,
Made of my worship barren strife.
Ah, whence to-day's so sweet release ;
This clearance light of all my care, This conscience free, this fertile peace,
These softly-folded wings of prayer;
This calm and more than conquering love,
With which the Tempter dares not cope; This joy that lifts no glance above,
For faith too sure, too sweet for hope?
O, happy time, too happy change,
It will not live, though fondly nursed !
I would not weep, not I,
Until I, smiling, die.
The little flowers breathe sweetness out
Through all the dewy night;
And 'plain for constant light?
Not so, not so, no load of woe
Need bring despairing frown ;
RT thou already weary of the way?
Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o'er : Get up, and lift thy burden ; lo ! before Thy feet the road goes stretching far away. If thou already faint who hast but come Through half thy pilgrimage, with fellows gay, Love, youth, and hope, under the rosy bloom And temperate airs of early breaking day; Look yonder, how the heavens stoop and gloom. There cease the trees to shade, the flowers to spring, And the angels leave thee. What wilt thou become Through yon drear stretch of dismal wandering, Lonely and dark ?—I shall take courage, friend, For comes not every step more near the end ?
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.
MOURNER, that dost deserve thy mournfulness,
Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell ; Say God is angry, and I earned it well ; I would not have Him smile and not redress.' Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less.
God rules at least, I find, as prophets tell,
And proves it in this prison.' Straight thy cell Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness. --A prison—and yet, from door and window-bar,
I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air ;
Even to me his days and nights are fair;
WITH HIS STRIPES WE ARE HEALED.
A VOICE upon the midnight
Where Kedron's moonlit waters stray,
“O Father ! take this cup away!'
Ah! Thou who sorrowest unto death,
conquer in thy mortal fray;
"O God! take not this cup away !'