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ROBERT BROWNING.

By land and sea 'twas flashed to every shore,
From fair old Venice the sad tidings spread,
England's great poet is, alas! no more,

World-wide the grief for Robert Browning dead!

Dead! after more than threescore years and ten
Of noble life blessed with pure love and sweet,
Gone from the places and the sight of men,

Gathered like ripened corn or sheaf of wheat.

No loss of vigor, all undimmed the thought,
Matchless the lustre of his latest verse,

With gems that are imperishable fraught;

Since Shakespeare's whose so many-hued and terse?

Translated now into the higher sphere,

Weep not for him, O ye, who loved him best,

United there to her he held most dear,

Soul of his soul, "and with God be the rest!"*

*From "Prospice":

"Then a light, then thy breast

O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

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WRITTEN AFTER READING "SURSUM CORDA," THE LAST POEM OF THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

Oct. 14, 1892.

Whence came the peace? In truth thou knowest now!

A peace immense that flooded all thy soul

When "Sursum Corda" through the church did roll,
E'en as thou knelt and prayed with lifted brow,

Asperges me, and make as white as snow
Drifted in orchards when the winds do blow.

Asperges me, a voice began to sing,

And God to thy sad soul his peace did bring.
Soon thy worn spirit, lifted from its woe,
Made purer far than whitest "Wayland snow,”
Cleaving the blue with strong, unfettered wings
Soared like a lark, and still upsoaring sings.
Did Dante greet thee in the realm divine,
He whose high genius was the joy of thine?

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