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Do show He'll meake his burdens light
To weaker souls; an' that his smile,
Is sweet upon a little chile,

When they be dead that loved it.

W. Barnes.

CC.

QUA CURSUM VENTUS.

S ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried :

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side.

E'en so- —but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged.

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain!

On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides-
To that, and your own selves be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

338

From the Italian of Michael Angelo.

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,—
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas !
At last, at last, unite them there!

A. H. Clough.

CCI.

TIME WAS I SHRANK FROM WHAT
WAS RIGHT.

IME was I shrank from what was right,
From fear of what was wrong;

I would not brave the sacred fight,
Because the foe was strong.

But now I cast that finer sense
And sorer shame aside;
Such dread of sin was indolence,
Such aim at heaven was pride.

So, when my Saviour calls, I rise,
And calmly do my best;
Leaving to Him, with silent eyes
Of hope and fear, the rest.

I step, I mount where He has led ;
Men count my haltings o'er ;—

I know them; yet, though self I dread,
I love His precept more.

7. H. Newman.

CCII.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

ES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none find grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made

From the Italian of Michael Angelo.

The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

339

W. Wordsworth.

CCIII.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

O mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold :

Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward course must hold ;

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek

(For what delights the sense is false and weak)

Ideal Form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to ought which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.

W. Wordsworth.

CCIV.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.

(FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHael angelo.)

HE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : My unassisted heart is barren clay, That of its native self can nothing feed : Of good and pious works thou art the seed, That quickens only where thou say'st it may : Unless Thou show to us thine own true way No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead. Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred That in thy holy footsteps I may tread : The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind That I may have the power to sing of thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly.

W. Wordsworth.

CCV.

THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS.

WOULD build a cloudy house

For my thoughts to live in,
When for earth too fancy-loose,
And too low for heaven:
Hush! I talk my dream aloud,
I build it bright to see,—
I build it on the moonlit cloud
To which I looked with thee.

Cloud-walls of the morning's gray, Faced with amber column, Crowned with crimson cupola

From a sunset solemn :
May-mists, for the casements, fetch,

Pale and glimmering,
With a sunbeam hid in each,
And a smell of spring.

Build the entrance high and proud, Darkening and then brightening, Of a riven thunder-cloud,

Veinéd by the lightning:

Use one with an iris-stain
For the door so thin,
Turning to a sound like rain
As I enter in.

Build a spacious hall thereby
Boldly, never fearing;
Use the blue place of the sky
Which the wind is clearing :
Branched with corridors sublime,
Flecked with winding stairs,
Such as children wish to climb
Following their own prayers.

In the mutest of the house,
I will have my chamber;
Silence at the door shall use
Evening's light of amber,
Solemnizing every mood,
Softening in degree,
Turning sadness into good
As I turn the key.

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