Fashioned her tenderly, Giving all weal to her ;Girdle ye slenderly, Go to her, kneel to her, Saying, 'He sendeth us, He the most dutiful, Meetly he endeth us, Maiden most beautiful! Let us get rest of you, Sweet, in your breast ;Die, being prest of you, Die, being blest.”” A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN. F "Vale, unica!" LOWERS,-that have died upon my Sweet Of her young bosom under you,— The Bird whose being no man knows— For lo, a garden-place I found, Alone she walked,-ah, well I wis, Then when I called to her her name,- At once across the sward she came,— "Where hast thou stayed?" "Where hast thou stayed?”—she asked as though The long years were an hour ago; But I spake not, nor answerèd, For, looking in her eyes, I saw, And in her clear cheek's changeless red, "This is well done," she said,-" in thee, O Love, that thou art come to me, To this green garden glorious; Now truly shall our life be sped In joyance and all goodlihed, For here all things are fair to us, And none with burden is oppressed, And none is poor or piteous,― For here is Rest. "No formless Future blurs the sky; That darkens not; for Sin is shriven, At "Heaven" she ceased ;—and lifted up With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow ; The lit leaves laughed,-sky shook, and lo, I swooned, and woke. -Ye that indeed are dead, Now for all waiting hours, Well am I comforted; For of a surety, now, I see, That, without dim distress Of tears, or weariness, My Lady, verily, awaiteth me; For my dear Lady's sake I am right fain to make Out from my pain a pillow, and to take And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand, |