SE EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES Fame EE, as the prettiest graves will do in time, Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime; Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods Have struggled thro' its binding osier-rods; Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry, Wanting the brick-work promised by and by; How the minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate, Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date! Love So, the year's done with! NAY SONG AY but you, who do not love her, Holds earth aught-speak truth above her? So fair, see, ere I let it fall! Because, you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over; So, why not witness, calmly gazing, Ifearth holds aught-speak truth-above her? Above this tress, and this I touch But cannot praise, I love so much! THE BOY AND THE ANGEL MOR ORNING, evening, noon and night, Then to his poor trade he turned, Hard he laboured, long and well; He stopped and sang, "Praise God!" Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; "I doubt not thou art heard, my son: "As well as if thy voice to-day "Were praising God, the Pope's great way. "This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome "Praises God from Peter's dome." Said Theocrite, "Would God that I 'Might praise him, that great way, and die!" Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone. With God a day endures alway, God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Lived there, and played the craftsman well; And morning, evening, noon and night, And from a boy, to youth he grew: And ever o'er the trade he bent, (He did God's will; to him, all one God said, "A praise is in mine ear; "There is no doubt in it, no fear: "So sing old worlds, and so "New worlds that from my footstool go. "Clearer loves sound other ways: "I miss my little human praise." Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell 'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, With his holy vestments dight, And all his past career Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, And in his cell, when death drew near, And rising from the sickness drear To the East with praise he turned, 'Vainly I left my angel-sphere, "Vain was thy dream of many a year. "Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped— "Creation's chorus stopped! "Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain. "With that weak voice of our disdain, "Back to the cell and poor employ: MEETING AT NIGHT THE grey sea and the long black land; In fiery ringlets from their sleep, Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; |