Over the silver mountains

Where spring the nectar fountains.
There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy, blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.

I'll take them first to quench their thirst,
And taste of nectar's suckets

At those clear wells where sweetness dwells
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the blest paths we'll travel,
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser, bought or sold,
No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the King's Attorney;
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees;
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder!
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribéd lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and
spread,

Set on my soul an everlasting head:
Then am I, like a palmer, fit

To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill

The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragged to go,
Or show

A downcast look, and sour?

No! 't is a fast to dole Thy sheaf of wheat, And meat,

Unto the hungry soul.

It is to fast from strife, From old debate And hate, To circumcise thy life.

To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve thy sin,
Not bin,

And that's to keep thy lent.

ROBERT HERRICK

I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT DIVINE

I WOULD I were an excellent divine

That had the Bible at my fingers' ends; That men might hear out of this mouth of mine How God doth make his enemies his friends; Rather than with a thundering and long prayer Be led into presumption, or despair.

This would I be, and would none other be,
But a religious servant of my God;
And know there is none other God but he,

And willingly to suffer mercy's rod, — Joy in his grace, and live but in his love, And seek my bliss but in the world above.

And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer, For all estates within the state of grace, That careful love might never know despair, Nor servile fear might faithful love deface; And this would I both day and night devise To make my humble spirit's exercise.

And I would read the rules of sacred life;
Persuade the troubled soul to patience;
The husband care, and comfort to the wife,
To child and servant due obedience;
Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace,
That love might live, and quarrels all might cease.

With sounds seraphic ring:

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labor you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? Yea, beds for all who come.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

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?" ""T is 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.

DSCHELLALEDDIN RUMI (Persian). Translation
of WILLIAM R. ALGER.

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE.

PRAYER BY MARY, QUEEN OF HUNGARY.

[Translation.]

O GOD! though sorrow be my fate,
And the world's hate

For my heart's faith pursue me,
My peace they cannot take away;
From day to day

Thou dost anew imbue me; Thou art not far; a little while Thou hid'st thy face with brighter smile Thy father-love to show me.

Lord, not my will, but thine, be done; If I sink down

When men to terrors leave me, Thy father-love still warms my breast, All's for the best;

Shall man have power to grieve me When bliss eternal is my goal, And thou the keeper of my soul, Who never will deceive me?

Thou art my shield, as saith the Word. Christ Jesus, Lord,

Thou standest pitying by me, And lookest on each grief of mine As if 't were thine :

What then though foes may try me, Though thorns be in my path concealed? World, do thy worst! God is my shield! And will be ever nigh me.

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

DIES IRE.

DAY of wrath, that day of burning,
All shall melt, to ashes turning,.
All foretold by seers discerning.

O, what fear it shall engender
When the Judge shall come in splendor,
Strict to mark and just to render !

Trumpet-scattered sound of wonder,
Rending sepulchres asunder,
Shall resistless summons thunder.

All aghast then Death shall shiver, And great Nature's frame shall quiver, When the graves their dead deliver.

By the anguished sigh that told
Treachery lurked within the fold,
From thy seat above the sky
Hear our solemn litany !

By thine hour of dire despair;
By thine agony of prayer;

By the cross, the wail, the thorn,
Piercing spear, and torturing scorn;
By the gloom that veiled the skies
O'er the dreadful sacrifice,
Listen to our humble cry,
Hear our solemn litany !

By thy deep expiring groan;
By the sad sepulchral stone;
By the vault whose dark abode
Held in vain the rising God!
O, from earth to heaven restored,
Mighty, reascended Lord,
Listen, listen to the cry
Of our solemn litany !

SIR ROBERT GRANT.

THE HOLY SPIRIT. IN the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When I lie within my bed, Sick at heart, and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the artless doctor sees No one hope but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When his potion and his pill, His or none or little skill, Meet for nothing, but to kill, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing bell doth toll, And the Furies, in a shoal, Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!