66 Earth not the Sphere of Souls. 'PAR ARENT of good! since all thy laws are just, Say, why permits thy judging providence Oppression's hand to bow meek innocence, And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust ? Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, That proudly wars against Omnipotence ? Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust? Amid the din of joy fair Virtue sighs, While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls." Thus I; when radiant 'fore my wondering eyes A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said: "Blind moralist! is Earth the sphere of souls ?" B. L. ARGENSOLA, Trans. by HERBERT. Each hath his Fortune in his Breast. In vain do men The heavens of their fortune's fault accuse, Sith they know best what is the best for them; For they to each such fortune do diffuse As they do know each can most aptly use. For not that which men covet most is best, Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse; But fittest is, that all contented rest With that they hold: each hath his fortune in his breast. It is the mind that maketh good or ill, Hath not enough, but wants in greater store; For wisdom is most riches; fools therefore They are which fortune do by vows devise, Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize. EDMUND SPENSER. Ere long it Will be Day. WILL take refuge in my God From man, and sin, and woe. Fain would I drop this mortal clod, To know as angels know; And love as angels love, And be as angels pure. It is all light, pure light above,— But shall I shun the sacred fight Here only, in this strife, Can I his soldier be: Here only spend or lose a life For Him who died for me. Nor would I too impatient pry The awful veil within; Or scan th' appalling mystery Of God-resisting sin. For Heaven's own light to stay. The night, the night, is well-nigh spent: CONDER. Early Calling. AY, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes-but not for thine Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour: Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom Detach thy delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. WILLIAM C. BRYANT. THE Excelsior! HE shades of night were falling fast, His brow was sad; his eye beneath The accents of that unknown tongue, In happy homes he saw the light "Try not the pass!" the old man said; "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last good-night; At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, There, in the twilight cold and gray, Excelsior! HENRY LONGFELLOW. Even her Foes Wept. GOD of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat The fiery winds of desolation flow: Father of vengeance! that with purple feet, Like a full wine-press treadst the world below; The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, Till Thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe. God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign The billows of the proud their rage suppress; Father of mercies! at one word of thine An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness! |