CLXII.

THE SEA AT EVENING.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea :
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

Wordsworth.

CLXIII.

GOD'S-ACRE.

ODL

BIA

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own!

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place, where human harvests grow.

Longfellow.

CLXIV.

THE MEASURE.

God, the Creator, with a pulseless hand
Of unoriginated power, hath weighed
The dust of earth and tears of man in one
Measure, and by one weight.

So saith His holy book.

Shall we, then, who have issued from the dust,
And there return,-shall we, who toil for dust,
And wrap our winnings in this dusty life,
Say, No more tears, Lord God!

'The measure runneth o'er!'

Oh, Holder of the balance, laughest Thou?
Nay, Lord! be gentler to our foolishness,
For His sake who assumed our dust and turns
On thee pathetic eyes

Still moistened with our tears.

And teach us, O our Father, while we weep,
To look in patience upon earth and learn―
Waiting in that meek gesture, till at last
These tearful eyes be filled
With the dry dust of death.

Mrs. Browning.

CLXV.

THE GOING OF MY BRIDE.

By the brink of the River our parting was fond,
But I whispered the words soft and low,

For a band of bright angels were waiting beyond.
And
my bride of a day was to go:

Was to go from our shore, with its headlands of years,
On a water whose depths were untold;

And the boat was to float on the River of Tears,
Till it blent with an ocean of gold.

Our farewell was brief as the fall of a tear-
The minutes like winged spirits flew,

When my bride whispered low that a shallop drew near,
And the beck of the Boatman she knew.

Then I spoke in one kiss all the passion of years,
For I knew that our parting was nigh;

Yet I saw not the end-I was blinded with tears,
And a light had gone out from the sky.

But I caught the faint gleam of an outdrifting sail,
And the dip of a silver-tipped oar;

And I knew by the low rustling sigh of the gale,
That a spirit had gone from the shore.

All alone in my grief I now sit on the sand,
Where so often she sat by my side;

And I long for the shallop to come to the strand,
That again I may sit by my bride.

C. H. Webb.

CLXVI.

A LAMENT.

Swifter far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone:

As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead,

Pansies let my flowers be:

On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear,
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me.

Shelley.

CLXVII.

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,

And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;

Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress;

Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less?

And thou-who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

R

Lord Byron.