“ But thou,” said I, “ hast miss'd thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark.

Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new?

“ Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly long'd for death.

“ 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; More life, and fuller, that I want."

I ceas'd, and sat as one forlorn.
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn,

Behold, it is the Sabbath morn."

66

And I arose, and I released
The casement, and the light increased
With freshness in the dawning east.

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal,
When meres begin to uncongeal,
The sweet church bells began to peal.

On to God's house the people prest : Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter'd like a welcome guest.

One walk'd between his wife and child, With measur'd footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled.

The prudent partner of his blood Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of womanhood.

And in their double love secure,

The little maiden walk'd demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure.

These three made unity so sweet,
My frozen heart began to beat,
Remembering its ancient heat.

I blest them, and they wander'd on :
I spoke, but answer came there none :
The dull and bitter voice was gone.

A second voice was at mine ear,
A little whisper silver-clear,
A murmur,

« Be of better cheer."

As from some blissful neighbourhood,
A notice faintly understood,
“I see the end, and know the good.”

A little hint to solace woe,
A hint, a whisper breathing low,
“I may not speak of what I know.”

Like an Æolian harp that wakes
No certain air, but overtakes
Far thought with music that it makes :

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : “What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? ” I cried. “ A hidden hope," the voice replied :

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour
From out my sullen heart a power
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower,

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove,
That every cloud, that spreads above
And veileth love, itself is love.

And forth into the fields I went,
And Nature's living motion lent
The pulse of hope to discontent.

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours,

The slow result of winter showers :

You scarce could see the grass for flowers.

I wonder'd, while I paced along :
The woods were fill'd so full with song,
There seem'd no room for sense of wrong.

So variously seem'd all things wrought,
I marvell’d how the mind was brought
To anchor by one gloomy thought ;