Nor in another; here, and here alone
Is given thee to suffer for God's sake.

In other worlds we shall more perfectly

Serve Him and love Him, praise Him, work for Him,
Grow near and nearer Him with all delight;

But then we shall not any more be called
To suffer, which is our appointment here.
Canst thou not suffer then one hour,

-or two? If He should call thee from thy cross to-day,

Saying, It is finished! — that hard cross of thine
From which thou prayest for deliverance,

Thinkest thou not some passion of regret

Would overcome thee? Thou wouldst say, 'So soon?
Let me go back, and suffer yet awhile

More patiently; - I have not yet praised God.'
And He might answer to thee, — ‘Never more.
All pain is done with.' Whensoe'er it comes,
That summons that we look for, it will seem
Soon, yea too soon. Let us take heed in time
That God may now be glorified in us;

And while we suffer, let us set our souls

To suffer perfectly: since this alone,

The suffering, which is this world's special grace,
May here be perfected and left behind.

- But in obedience and humility; -
Waiting on God's hand, not forestalling it.
Seek not to snatch presumptuously the palm
By self-election; poison not thy wine
With bitter herbs if He has made it sweet;
Nor rob God's treasuries because the key
Is easy to be turned by mortal hands.
The gifts of birth, death, genius, suffering,
Are all for His hand only to bestow.
Receive thy portion, and be satisfied.
Who crowns himself a king is not the more

Royal; nor he who mars himself with stripes
The more partaker of the Cross of Christ.

But if Himself He come to thee, and stand
Beside thee, gazing down on thee with eyes
That smile, and suffer; that will smite thy heart,
With their own pity, to a passionate peace;
And reach to thee Himself the Holy Cup,
(With all its wreathen stems of passion-flowers
And quivering sparkles of the ruby stars),
Pallid and royal, saying 'Drink with Me;'
Wilt thou refuse? Nay, not for Paradise!
The pale brow will compel thee, the pure hands
Will minister unto thee; thou shalt take
Of that communion through the solemn depths
Of the dark waters of thine agony,

With heart that praises Him, that yearns to Him
The closer through that hour. Hold fast His hand,
Though the nails pierce thine too! take only care
Lest one drop of the sacramental wine

Be spilled, of that which ever shall unite
Thee, soul and body to thy living Lord!

Therefore gird up thyself, and come, to stand
Unflinching under the unfaltering hand,
That waits to prove thee to the uttermost.

It were not hard to suffer by His hand,

If thou couldst see His face; - but in the dark!
That is the one last trial: - be it so.

Christ was forsaken, so must thou be too:

How couldst thou suffer but in seeming, else?
Thou wilt not see the face nor feel the hand,

Only the cruel crushing of the feet,

When through the bitter night the Lord comes down To tread the winepress. — Not by sight, but faith, Endure, endure, be faithful to the end!

AGESILAO MILANO.

NAPLES, 1856.

FOR the glory and the passion of this midnight,
I praise Thy name, I give Thee thanks, O Christ!
Thou that hast neither failed me nor forsaken,

Through these hard hours with victory overpriced;
Now that I too of thy passion have partaken,
For the world's sake called, elected, sacrificed.

Thou wast alone through thy redemption-vigil,
Thy friends had fled;

The angel at the garden from Thee parted,

And solitude instead,

More than the scourge, or cross, O tender-hearted, Under the crown of thorns bowed down Thy head.

But I, amid the torture and the taunting,

I have had Thee!

Thy hand was holding my hand fast and faster,

Thy voice was close to me,

And glorious eyes said, 'Follow me, thy Master,
Smile as I smile thy faithfulness to see.'

Master, our hearts can save us as thou spakest!
Have they not spent

All night their uttermost on me unholpen?
Behold my body rent

And broken; - but among the wounds wide open

Ye will not find a broken sacrament.

By the deed done, by torture overmastered,

And death outbraved,

For ever from denial and dishonor,

Soul, thou this night art saved!

Italia, with the purple robe upon her,

Shall know me faithful by these scars engraved.

'Spared but till sunrise; — else would Death forestall us, Mercifullest.'

Yea, all their worst is done, they cannot keep me

Now, should they do their best,.

Back from the gates of Paradise, nor steep me
In any healing balm of earthly rest.

Sunrise and it is summer, and the morning
Waits glorified

An hour hence, when the cool clear rose-cloud gathers
About heaven's eastern side,

And down the azure grottos where the bathers

Loose the tired limbs, a lovely light will glide.

Fold after fold the winding waves of opal

The sands will drown;

And when the morning-star amid the pearly
Light of the east goes down,

Then my star shall arise, and late and early
Shine for a jewel in the Master's crown.

Mazzini, Master, singer of the sunrise!
Knowest thou me?

I held thy hand once, and the summer lightning
Still of thy smile I see;

Me thou rememberest not amidst the heightening
Vision of God, and of God's Will to be.

But thou wilt hear of me, by noon to-morrow,
And henceforth I

Shall be to thee a memory and a token

Out of the starry sky;

And when my soul unto thy soul hath spoken,
Enough, I shall not wholly pass nor die.

Italia, when thou comest to thy kingdom,

Remember me!

Me, who on this thy night of shame and sorrow
Was scourged and slain with thee;

Me, who upon thy resurrection morrow

Shall stand among thy sons beside thy knee.

Shalt thou not be one day, indeed, O Mother,
Enthroned of all,

To the world's vision as to ours now only,
At Rome for festival;

Around thee gathered all thy lost and lonely

And loyal ones, that failed not at thy call.

With golden lyre, or violet robe of mourning,
Or battle-scar;·

And one shall stand more glorious than the others,
He of the Morning-Star,

Whose face lights all the faces of his brothers,

Out of the silvery northern land afar.

But grant to me there, unto all beholders,

Bare to the skies,

To stand with bleeding hands, and feet, and shoulders, And rapt, unflinching eyes,

And locked lips, yielding to the question-holders

Nor moanings, nor beseechings, nor replies.

Is the hour hard? Too soon it will be over,
Too sweet, too sore;

The arms of Death fold over me with rapture,
Life knew not heretofore;

Heaven will be peace, but I shall not recapture
The passion of this hour, for evermore.