Within the forest's deepest shade, Ten thousand depths aroundHome for each living thing is made That creepeth on the ground. Home, Home! it is eternal love— E'en in the poor defilèd heart, Blest Spirit! thou that home prepare Do thou make clean, secure, Lest Love should seek his dwelling there, His home, nor find it pure. Then when this earthly home shall fall, As built on erring sands, Me to that heavenly mansion call, That home of love, and joy, and peace, From troubling where the wicked cease, And where the weary rest. COWPER'S GRAVE. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. It is a place where poets crown'd O poets! from a maniac's tongue And now, what time ye all may read, Through dimming tears, his story, How discord on the music fell, And darkness on the glory— And how when, one by one, sweet sounds He wore no less a loving face Because so broken-hearted, He shall be strong to sanctify And bow the meekest Christian down In meeker adoration; Nor ever shall he be in praise By wise or good forsaken Named softly as the household name With sadness that is calm, not gloom, With meekness that is gratefulness, On God whose heaven hath won him-Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud Towards His love to blind him; But gently led the blind along Where breath and bird could find him; And wrought within his shatter'd brain Such quick poetic senses, As hills have language for, and stars, 2 K The pulse of dew upon the grass His own did calmly number; And silent shadows from the trees Fell o'er him like a slumber; The very world, by God's constraint, Beside him true and loving! And timid hares were drawn from woods But while in blindness he remain'd And things provided came without Like a sick child that knoweth not That turns his fever'd eyes around 66 'My mother! where's my mother?" As if such tender words and looks Could come from any other! The fever gone, with leaps of heart Thus?—oh, not thus! No type of earth Wherein he scarcely heard the chant Of soul from body parted; But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My Saviour! not deserted!" Deserted! who hath dreamt that when The cross in darkness rested Upon the Victim's hidden face, No love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er The atoning drops averted What tears have wash'd them from the soul That one should be deserted? Deserted! God could separate From his own essence rather; |