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WITHOUT AND WITHIN.
“Avd is this," mused I, "all ye earned, He thinks how happy is my arm High-vaulted brain and cunning hand, 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled That ye to greater men could teach
load; The skill yourselves could never reach ?" And wishes me some dreadful harm,
Hearing the merry corks explode. “And who were they," I mused, “that
Meanwhile I inly curse the bore wrought Throngh pathless wilds, with labor long, And envy hiin, outside the door,
Of hunting still the same old coon, The lighways of our daily thought? Who reared those towers of earliest song
In golden quiets of the moon. That lift us from the throng to peace
The winter wind is not so cold Remote in sunny silences ?"
As the bright smile he sees me win,
Nor the host's oldest wine so old
As our poor gabble sour and thin.
I envy him the ungyved prance
By which his freezing feet he warins, flame
And drag my lady's-chains and dance To make it possible that thou
The galley-slave of dreary forms. Shouldst here with brother sinners bow.
0, could he have my share of din, Thoughts that great hearts once broke And I his quiet !- past a doubt for, we
'T would still be one man bored within, Breathe cheaply in the common air; And just another bored without. The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes rare, Who perished, opening for their race
GODMINSTER CHIMES. New pathways to the commonplace.
WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS Henceforth, when rings the health to FOR CHRIST CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE. those
GODMINSTER? Is it Fancy's play?
I know not, but the woril
Sings in my heart, nor can I say
Whether 't was dreamed or heard ; One cup of recognition true
Yet fragrant in my mind it clings
As blossoms after rain,
This vision in my brain.
Through aisles of long-drawn centuries My coachman, in the moonlight there,
My spirit walks in thought, Looks through the side-light of the And to that symbol lifts its eyes door;
Which God's own pity wrought; I hear him with his brethren swear,
From Calvary shines the altar's gleam, As I could do, – but only more.
The Church's East is there,
The Ages one great minster seem, Flattening his nose against the pane, That throbs with praise and prayer.
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Their graves who won the martyr's He sees me in to supper go,
crown A si!ken wonder by my side,
And safe in God repose;
Of flounces, for the door too wide. Who low in heaven have learned