Better down nature's scale to roll,
Far as the base unbreathing clod,
Than rest a conscious reasoning soul,
Impervious to the light of God;-
Hateful the powers that but divine
What we have lost beyond recall,
The intellectual plummet-line

That sounds the depths to which we fall.

CXXVII.

DE PROFUNDIS.

Lord Houghton.

As when a bark, bereft of oars and helm
Slopes on a savage realm,

And the lone sailor all against him finds
Sky, shore, and waves, and winds,
So drift I helpless, and bear far and wide
God's anger at my side.

The magnet-star, that should have won my will,
Shone thro' me sweet and still,

When the world-billows, in their golden play,
Lured me with smiles away-

Thus went I forth, and wasted life and name
Laboriously, with shame.

Often the barren rocks with lifted voice
Cried sorrow on my choice;

Often the faithless sands about my feet
Told me my self-deceit ;

The winds sang warnings and each hollow shell
Breathed in mine ears a knell.

So that I wandered the wide seas for gain,
And left the poor in pain,

Now for sweet health in a voluptuous air
Find plentiful despair,

And from soft dreams of an Elysian land
Strike on this iron strand.

Fierce from long sleep the sins of summer roll
Their anguish on my soul;

They seize me in their arms, they wring with shocks
My heart out on the rocks,

Men

gaze-none reckoneth in his heart-belief
How holy a thing is grief.

O vision of a maiden pure as snow,
I love thee well, but go!

Go-for sweet joy may not be yoked with shame,
Our bourne is not the same.

Harps in the pure sky measure thy low prayer;
Mine falls I know not where.

Tell me, dear friends, if one with bleeding feet
Stand where the sea-waves meet

The bending sky-one pale, with anguish marred.
Doth he with wan regard

Seem to yearn hitherward, and feel and know
This my contempt and woe?

Cold is my heart, mine eyes are waxen dim,
But could I once find Him,

And lave with tears his thin feet crimson-wet,
There were good hope e'en yet,

But ah! he tarrieth with his virgin-trains,
Not caring for my pains!

Would he not gather up these drifting spars,
And with new bolts and bars

Heal the crazed wreck, and make her strengthless knees
Fit to re-stem the seas?

But ah! far hence on lilied couch he sleeps,
Not dreaming of the deeps!

Would he not steer me in my broken bark
On thro' the lurid dark!

Then, tho' the red storm veil him, I might hear
His voice and feel him near.

Thou fool!-yea, something like to this might be
For others, not for thee.

Say, can the chill lips that in death lie mute
Breathe music in the flute?

Or, in the dark earth coffined, the dull ear
Unseal itself, and hear?

Then canst thou also not in vain arise,
And labour and be wise.

How merciless in front, how black, with gloom
Frowns the sought goal of doom!

And if I look behind me, rolling dire

Curl the long waves in fire.

O Thou far-listening, if thou hear my cry,
Come quickly, for I die!

P. S. Worsley.

CXXVIII.

THE RAINY DAY.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

Longfellow.

CXXIX.

A DOUBTING HEART.

Where are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
Oh doubting heart!
Far over purple seas,

They wait in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

Oh doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow,

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid his rays
These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
Oh doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky,

That soon (for spring is nigh)

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of despair?

Oh doubting heart!

Thy sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,

And angels' silver voices stir the air.

Miss Procter.