A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the day, a Master o'er a Slave, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed, For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; Which having been must ever be; In the faith that looks through death, And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, I only have relinquished one delight, To live beneath your more habitual sway. I loved the Brooks which down their channels fret, The Clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. EXTRACT FROM "THE RECONCILER." Dora Greenwell. Our dreams are reconciled, And Thou, our Life's Interpreter, dost still Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue, Wisdom's first lovers told, if read in Thee comes true. Thou, O Friend From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own, Dost pierce the broken language of its moan — Each claim is justified; Our young illusions fail not, though they die Within the brightness of Thy Rising, kissed To happy death, like early clouds that lie About the gates of Dawn, -a golden mist Paling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst. The World that puts Thee by, That opens not to greet Thee with Thy train, It will not, of some base similitude Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood, Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and tear Its own illusions grown too thin and bare To wrap it longer; for within the gate Where all must pass, a veiled and hooded Fate, A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies, And he who answers not its question dies, Still changing form and speech, but with the same Bold guesser, hath but prest Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong; Our help of old, and brought Meat from this eater, sweetness from this strong. O Bearer of the key That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet We labor in the fire, Thick smoke is round about us, through the din Of words that darken counsel, clamors dire Ring from thought's beaten anvil, where within Thou camest, saying, "Wherefore do ye wrong A Service making free, A Commonweal where each has all in Thee. And not alone these wide, Deep-planted yearnings, seeking with a cry Unto Thy side for shelter, finding there The wound's deep cleft, forgets its moan, and weeps |