A SPOTLESS child sleeps on the flowering moss-
'Tis well for him; but when a sinful man,
Envying such slumber, may desire to put
His guilt away, shall he return at once
To rest by lying there? Our sires knew well
(Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons)
The fitting course for such; dark cells, dim lamps,
A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm :
No mossy pillow blue with violets !
R. BROWNING, Paracelsus.
O EARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes :
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth,
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies,
Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth
Of all that irked her from the hour of birth;
With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,
Silence more musical than any song;
Even her very heart has ceased to stir :
Until the morning of Eternity
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;
And when she wakes she will not think it long.
WHO reade a chapter when they rise,
Shall ne'er be troubled with ill eyes.
Who shuts his hands, hath lost his gold :
Who opens it, hath it twice told.
Who goes to bed, and doth not pray,
Maketh two nights to ev'ry day.
Who by aspersions throw a stone
At th' head of others, hit their own.
Who looks on ground with humble eyes,
Finds himself there, and seeks to rise.
I STAND by the river where both of us stood,
And there is but one shadow to darken the flood;
And the path leading to it, where both used to pass,
Has the step but of one, to take dew from the grass,
One forlorn since that day.
The flowers of the margin are many to see;
None stoops at my bidding to pluck them for me.
The bird in the alder sings, loudly and long-
My low sound of weeping disturbs not his song,
As thy vow did, that day.
I stand by the river, I think of the vow;
Oh, calm as the place is, vow breaker, be thou!
I leave the flower growing, the bird unreproved;
Would I trouble thee rather than them, my beloved,—
And my lover that day?
Go, be sure of my love, by that treason forgiven, Of my prayers, by the blessings they win thee from Heaven;
Of my grief (guess the length of the sword by the sheath's),
By the silence of life, more pathetic than death's ! Go-be clear of that day.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
S. MICHAEL AND ALL ANGELS.
They led him, high applauded, and present
Before the seat supreme; from whence a voice,
From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard :-
"Servant of God, well done! Well hast thou fought
The better fight, who single hast maintained
Against revolted multitudes the cause
Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms,
And for the testimony of truth hast borne
Universal reproach, far worse to bear
Than violence; for this was all thy care-
To stand approv'd in sight of God, though worlds
Judged thee perverse.
Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince,
And thou, in military prowess next,
Gabriel; lead forth to battle these my sons
Invincible; lead forth my armed Saints,
By thousands and by millions ranged for fight,
Equal in number to that godless crew
Rebellious. Them with fire and hostile arms
Fearless assault; and, to the brow of Heaven
Pursuing, drive them out from God and bliss
Into their place of punishment, . . ."
So spake the Sovran Voice; and clouds began
To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll
In dusky wreaths, reluctant flames, the sign
Of wrath awaked; nor with less dread the loud
Ethereal trumpet from on high gan blow.
At which command the Powers Militant,
That stood for Heaven, in mighty quadrate join'd
Of union irresistible, moved on
In silence their bright legions to the sound
Of instrumental harmony, that breathed
Heroic ardour to adventurous deeds
Under their godlike leaders, in the cause
Of God and His Messiah. On they move,
Indissolubly firm; nor obvious hill,
Nor straitening vale, nor wood, nor stream, divides
Their perfect ranks; for high above the ground
Their march was, and the passive air upbore
Their nimble tread.
Strange to us it seemed
At first that Angel should with Angel war,
And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet
So oft in festivals of joy and love
Unanimous, as sons of one great Sire,
Hymning the Eternal Father.
MILTON, Paradise Lost, Bk. vi.
THE SWALLOWS OF CITEAUX.
UNDER eaves, against the towers, All the spring, their muddy bowers Swallows build about Citeaux. Round the chapter-house and hall, From the dawn to evenfall,
They are fluttering to and fro
On their never-flagging wing;
With the psalms the brethren sing
Blends their loud incessant cry;
In and out the plastered nest
Never taking thought of rest,
Chattering these swallows fly.
They distract the monk who reads,
Him as well who tells his beads,
Him who writes his chronicle;
In the cloister old and gray
They are jubilant and gay,
In the very church as well.
On the dormitory beds,
In refectory o'er the heads
At the windows rich with paint,
Ever dashing in and out
With the maddest, noisiest rout
As would surely vex a saint.
To the Abbot then complain
Pious monks :-"Shall these remain
To disturb us at our prayers?
Bid us nests and eggs destroy,
Then the birds will not annoy
Any more our deafened ears."
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