Words for the Hour

Front matter

WORDS FOR THE HOUR.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "PASSION-FLOWERS."

The Lyric I

The philosophic I, is not The I that any man may meet On errands of familiar use, Or held to greetings in the street.

The I that cannot choose but stand Great rights and wrongings to assert, Is not the I that wastes the meal, And leaves hiatus in the shirt.

Nor must the sorrows of my song Stand for the household weights I bear, Who thankful every morn return To tasks beloved of thought and prayer.

Nor such as share my working sphere, Plagued with my music to the soul, For Giant foes that shut the world With false and tyrannous control.

Eyes may be sad at prison bars To whom the sun is glad and free; And placid depths of Being show The storm-clouds of Humanity.

And as one emblematic cup From lip to lip doth fervent move, So make my poet vase a boon For all who weep, and think, and love.

The Sermon of Spring

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tpp|THE SERMON OF SPRING.| {asc}<>I.

Now that the Spring ushers smiling the full, glad Summer, As the bride-maiden the bride, to grow modest beside her, "Here is my sister," she saith, "but more fashioned and perfect, Come to a fuller growth in the heart of the Highest, She the decision, I the intent of His kindness— Her receive, O ye mortals, for good and fruition. And as my blushes are lost in the glow of her beauty, So let your pleasures give place to the earnest of Wisdom. |end=follow

Wisdom, the true joy extatic, made good through upholding The burthen of noontide, with multiform splendors o'ercharging Man's weak brain, which resists them and therefore is manly. Ye who walk happy to-day, who unclasp the light vesture, That to the heart the warm sunshine may do its glad mission, That through the breast may strike rapturous joy and expansion, Ye will have sighs to give forth ere the mantle fold closer; Ye must be sadder and wiser ere Summer shall leave you." What should the Summer prove, what the brunt and the bearing, When the fair Spring-tide doth leave us a sting in her blossoms? What shall the action he, what the striving and tearing, When the great heart of a Nation, in wildest commotion Shakes with its terrible heaving the green earth beneath us?

Heart like a woman's, (the heart is the woman in all things,) That, through false guidance betrayed from its own nobler instincts, Wakes yet to consciousness, learning too late the foul treason, Cries thence for succor, if there be justice in heaven. What are these passions, the fiendish, that rush into transport? What are these voices, the earnest, that rise to rebuke them? What is this anguish? the poor heart grows passive and breathless, Tightened with terror lest they, the malignant, should conquer, Lifting its hope to the Godhead that, brooding above us, Says of the Chaos, this too is my righteous appointing. Yes, but the Chaos knew the command of its master, Sleeked its black roughness, and sank at his feet like a watch-dog. 'T was but the threshold I kept of thine uncounted treasures;

Take them unwasted, Master, bring out their fair beauties; Fling to the wondering deep the new sun and the planets, Build in the infinite largeness the heavens that shall praise Thee. Oh! had it risen instead with a purpose persistent; Said: I am somewhat, and that which I am I continue. Why should I yield my tumultuous joy of rebellion, That thy law should remodel my ancient dominion; That thy will, which I care not to know, be accomplished? With what a smile had the lips which I dare not imagine Struck the rude outlaw to mute and immediate homage! How had the outstretched finger vouchsafed its calm guidance, Till the dark pulses should leap to the thrill of His music! So, from the wilder tumult these symbols would picture, Let the torn heart of my country turn, silent and steadfast, Seized with the courage of good, till the uproar receding Be as the thoughts of a child, who, admonished at bedtime,

ppoem| start=follow| "Thou hast been froward," creeps nearer the breast of his mother, Strangely recalling the passionate cries of the morning.

{asc}<>II.

Who are these that sweep on to the House of the People, Cherished like song-birds, warm with their own downy wrappings? Splendors of feathers we see, as of laces and diamonds; Splendors of beauty, that shame the adornment of either. Met by the Marshal, and led to the smile of the Magnate Bland in his greeting—blandly they please him with curtseys. Fairest of women tender white hands for his touching; Men of the haughtiest wait for the nod of their patron. Has he betrayed the trust that was left to his swearing? Hush! 'tis the Chair Presidential to which we do homage; Every man cringes where any man may aspire. One I discovered, haply not seen by my fellows; Young and a Virgin, wearing her fillet of oak-leaves, |end=follow

Wearing the green nodding plumes of the Court of the Prairie, Gyves on her free-born limbs, on her fair arms shackles, Blood on her garments, terror and grief in her features. Oh! she was weary, upholding the crown of her promise, Keeping the watch and the ward that brave men should have kept her. Oh! she was weary with crying aloud from the Westland, Faintly and fiercely: "Brothers! will none of you help me?" Where with hum and confusion scarce tempered by music, The brilliant assemblage thronged their chief man for his virtue, Sudden she stood, like a guilty ghost at a banquet. "I am Kansas," she shrieked, and her hand gave its menace, "Kansas," and seized the crisp locks for a terrible shaking. "Me dost thou murder—me dost thou sell in thy shambles. Coined from my blood is the gold that should keep thee in power.

ppoem| start=follow| Thou hast heard my loud shrieking—hast counted my struggles; Scarcely I hold from my heart the death wound of thy Bravos. Tremble," she cried, "tho' the battle seem thine for a season, Not a drop of my blood shall be wanting to judge thee— Tremble, thou fallen from mercy, ere fallen from office; The heart of the Nations shall loathe ere it gladly forget thee, Known for thy vileness alone, and the sorrow it wrought us.

While she yet spake, from the heaven God's thunder had fall'n; And I heard: "The crime, not the paltry offender so stirs us."

{asc}<>III.

Take heart, thou lone one—a champion leaps to defend thee, Armed with the loftier issue, the art and the moral; Eloquent lips, and the integral heart of Conviction, Powerful still, when the arm of the spoiler has crumbled. |end=follow

Doctrine of Right, and the Old World tradition of Freedom— Doctrine of Justice, thank God, no New England invention Known to the Ancients, known to the Gods and their poets, Known to great Tully, whose pillars of perfect marble Stand in the temple of Truth, his remembrance for Ages. There shall thy record be, Knight of the wronged and the helpless; There shall thy weapon be kept, with the motto: "I hurled it." How hast thou hardened the loving heart and quick feelings, To stand up and speak the great spirit-dividing sentence, To stand, a mark for the thief and assassin to aim at. More than our envy, more than thy hope was thy guerdon— Setting the seal of thy blood to the word of thy courage. If but the pure of heart in a pure cause should suffer, Sumner, the task thou hast chosen was thine for its fitness. Never was Paschal victim more stainlessly offered, Never on milder brow gleamed the crown of the martyr.

Stand thence, a mark for the better and nobler ambition; For they are holy, the wounds that the Southerner dealt thee. Count them blessed, and blessed the mother that bore thee. Would that the thing I best love, aye, the son of my bosom, Suffering beside thee, had shared the high deed and its glory. Shall we bend over those wounds with our tears and our balsams? Tears warm with rapture, balsams of costliest clearness. Take thy deserving then—wear it for life on thy forehead; Crowned with those scars shalt thou enter the just man's heaven; Crowned with those scars shalt thou stand in the record of heroes.

If earthly counsel were vain, should the heavens befriend thee. Sinking Orion, cast out in the wrath of the tyrant, Calls not in vain on the dumb heart of Nature to help him;

ppoem| start=follow| Lo! the deep comes to his aid, and its monsters upbear him; Hesper stoops over the Ocean her long shining tresses Till he is drawn by them up to the zone of her beauty; And, like fair sisters, the stars close around him forever.

{asc}<>IV.

Scarcely the hush of horror gives way thro' the country, Ere from the Westland breaks the wild war-cry that grieves us. Here the oppressor has come, he has reaped his rude harvest, And the black ridges are left in the desolate cornfield. Low lies the village; the people stand, dull and disheartened, Wondering what miscreant shall march with the banner of Freedom. Oh! thou blue banner of God, with the stars of thy promise, Wave in thy fury, avenge this usurping and insult! Crack! thou crystal! let lame from the high empyrean, Sweep from the outraged earth the vile chief and his legions.

Lawrence is fallen! Our friends and our brothers are murdered! |end=follow

And your smug President soothly subscribes their death warrant. Man! walk not forth, lest the beasts of the meadow upbraid thee— True to their office, fulfilling the task God appointed. Even the mastiff shall greet thee with howls of derision— He who, left with the treasure, forsakes not its keeping— Mocking the thief, giving battle till one of them perish. Yea! let the meanest thing that is faithful deride him; Let stocks and stones thank God that they cannot do treason. Set him aside, my country! be great and impeach him! Write out his dark account, tell his deeds as he did them. Chosen to serve the people, his servants shall bind them. Sworn to uphold the law, he will cheat and degrade it. Blood has he counselled—not once but again and often. Blood shall he have, poured to God with a holy intention— True blood of Seventy-Six, that brave men have bequeathed us— Left to be spent as they spent it, freely for Freedom.

Hark! E'en the pulpit rebukes the slow drowse of the anthem, Praising of God, amid actions that praise him in nowise. Here some brave priest lifts his voice; the far rapine and bloodshed, And murderous manners at home, move his eloquent finger. "Shame on you Christians," he cries, "if with such you have friendship, And, if you be not ashamed, let your Pastor disown you."

Thanks! good pastor, our tribute of thanks for thy fervor— 'Tis but a spark—I let it kindle the wide congregation With that clear redness of shame which hath grace before Heaven, With that good tingling that rouses men's slumbering virtue; Each confessing to each, we were careless and brutish; Sat unawakened by, while they hewed down our brethren. Thus, by the sorrowing face shall the heart be made better. This is as things should be—let the priest lead the people,

ppoem| start=follow| Stamp them, as melted wax, with high feeling and purpose. Who hath anointed the man who shall stand looking Godward, That he should pipe to the tune of their wanton wishes? Oh! what a heathen Church shall we have if men's passions, Traffic and greed, are to measure the text for the preacher.

{asc}<>V.

Finite is human help—many words are a hindrance. Words for the muses should bear the slow pressure of patience; Scarcely one leaves them content, after utmost endeavor. Visit me not with your anger, ye powers poetic, If, in my hotness and haste, I have jarred your sweet fetters. But, while your presence I feel, thrilling through and above me, Listen a, moment longer; suspend your high sentence, (Towards which I leap, when the daring is more than the danger,) While with the name that has grown to a presence ideal, |end=follow

As with a sound of sweet music, I pass from your hearing. Washington! thou art set as a symbol of greatness, Of courage that boasts not, of honor that knows not temptation. Thee all men praise—not a town in thy multiplied country That hath not thy name and thy bust for its empty Valhalla. How is it with thee, calm looking down from the deathcloud? Is not thy soul astound with the praise and the practice? Dost thou not point to the niches, the wreaths, and the statues, Asking: "What is it ye honor, who know not my maxims? Mocking my spirit, when patriots catch its far echoes. Wherefore these splendors?—the skill of the draftsman and sculptor— Marbles, whose whiteness stands not for your whiteness of virtue, Filth of the market defiling the innermost temple— Wherefore these columns?—this dome that shall pierce the high heaven? Were not the narrow walls wide enough for your mercies?

ppoem| start=follow| Was not the low roof too high for your poor aspirations? Can you not see that the heart of your city is meanness? Give it another name, lest it stand to defame me."

{asc}<>VI.

No, not Washington, springtide must end my brief lesson. Sweetness of Nature alone for these woes can console us. Blessed is he who takes comfort in seed-time and harvest, Setting the warfare of life to the hymn of the seasons. In the garden, the whispering walls are our refuge, Closes with music its gate on the outer confusion. The heaped green grasses rise up in their congregation Lifting their heads to answer the sunshine with gladness. Birdlings singing aloft in the blossom-hung branches, Tell of the promise in which they bring up their young households, Tell of the faith in which God has deserted them never. So—we will lift our heads—these men too are our brothers— |end=follow

They should be gathered with us in the fold of the Future. Heaven enlighten their hearts, ere we close for the death-tug, Flinging them far from our bounds with their wrath and their rapine,— As the man tears from his side the beloved who betrays him, Lest her soft vices insensibly ruin his virtue, Lest he too fall, undermined by the white tooth of falsehood. Keep the promise of Spring, O! thou Father of fathers— Give us, great God, beyond these anarchic convulsions, The high, synthetic repose of thy progress and order.

Tremont Temple

The evil thing he smote at, waited long To hurl its vileness at that Master brain. 'T will be a proud day when we gather here, (Grant it, dear God!) to hear his voice again.

And, Douglass, thou shalt own the white man's debt To thee and thine, half cancelled, by the rood; The country flashes with the Northern fire, And Sumner blest the banner with his blood.

Slave Eloquence

Nay, speak, thou shadowy Image! thou art fain To ease the throbbing fulness of thy heart, From lips that, not ungraciously, essay The white man's language, not the white man's art.

Thou wilt not stoop to curses impotent And wild—such weakness is not for the free— With modest gesture and with manly phrase Make clear thy right—adorn thy liberty!

Nor turn to tear thy tyrants—thou hast learned A lesson holier than wrath or hate; Since the borne sorrow leaves a bosom-rift Where gentle Charity may penetrate.

Thy speech doth to the stronger race aver Some deathless favors—Shakspeare's thought and rhyme, The knitted bond and logic of the law, And Jesu's words, the treasure of all time.

Speaking, he kept the measure of our wish. But we had deemed him eloquent, unheard, For, looking on the wronged and rescued man, His presence pleaded stronger than his word.

An Hour in the Senate

Beyond the narrow freehold of our sight Methinks, God smiles upon a different wise, And to the agonizing thought replies: "Be of good courage—God is for the right."

Rings the wild menace thro' the Congress Halls To die out harmless—hath an error friends? Nay, hirelings, who protect it for their ends; And fly to shelter, when its falseness falls.

Yet, rise to answer, chafing in thy chair, With soul indignant stirred, and flushing brow. Thou art God's candidate—speak soothly now, Let every word anticipate a prayer.

Gather in thine the outstretched hands that strive To help thy pleading, agonized and dumb; Bear up the hearts whose silent sorrows come For utterance, to the voice that thou canst give.

Theirs is an eloquence that cannot reach The coldness of our distant sympathies, Then, pluck them bleeding for the country's eyes, Speed with the wings of universal speech.

Give us their story in untutored phrase— The idly-learned of the earth are here, To hide with Reason what the heart makes clear, While Truth stands stript, to meet th' Eternal's gaze.

And let the scoffer's feeble shaft be spent— Such shall stand silent in the better day, As faithless Sarah stole her shame away, When the stern guest rebuked her merriment.

So the true word corrects the stormy school. God's angel, stooping, rests his ruffled wings— For this is one of many questionings, And one has spoken well—The right shall rule.

The Senator's Return

Shall we behold thee, scatheless of the Grave, But with the halo of the Just in sight; Bearing a rescued Goddess in thine arms, Thyself immortal, wed with deathless Right.

Slave Suicide

Pursue, to depths of agony unknown— Strip, smite him, gyved and bound, that cannot flee, At one sure limit God doth set him free, And aimless Fury mars a form of stone.

Had this thy creed been sanctioned, we had lost Those men and women patient unto death, Twined in our very rosary of Faith, God's jewels, God's, who registers their cost.

Triumphant, these abode the test of fire, Were scourged, were branded, broken on the wheel, Pierced with sharp fangs of beasts, or sharper steel, And fainted not in hope, nor in desire.

Nay, thou hadst rifled thus, with hand profane, A crowning glory from the Crucified; Where were the healing from the wounded side, If his own hand the costly life had ta'en?

He bore his martyrdom as God did mete, Bequeathed it, drop by drop, and part by part, Ours, with the blissful brokenness of heart In which we kneel to kiss the sinless feet.

Smile then upon the scourge, devoted friend! There comes a glory, wreathed with every stripe, His meed who waits till his reward is ripe, And crowns God's perfect purpose in his end.

Balaklava

'T was the old gallant English blood, And many a shadowy ancestor, Guarding his sculptured arms afar, That day in memory stood.

At serried gallop on they press, Swerveless as pencilled lines of light, And where a steed turns back in fright, That steed is riderless.

They charged in high, immortal ire! The war-cloud swallowed them, the young, The brave,—a handful widely flung, But of heroic fire.

They fell, unconquered, nor in vain. No, by the sacrificial cost Of Faith and Courage, never lost, Theirs doth the day remain.

Reft heart of love, contain thy wound! Flash, eyes! though lips press close and pale! Still, mourners! let us hear no wail Above the trumpet's sound.

Nor wait the sire to weep the son That bore his fortune and his pride, Nor shall the mother's wish divide From these, her cherished one.

But tearful England holds her breath, Listening, uncomforted, their fame, Who, in the greatness of her name Rode glorious unto death.

To Florence Nightingale

But lo! where one of tardier impulse sits With other blossoms that are hers, by right. And waits a vacant moment for his gift. She is adorned beyond her youth's desire, No place about her for a leaflet more; So, with a sudden thought, he flings the prize To scatter, where the patient chorus stand, A willing back-ground to her high relief.

Strange joy and wonder seize those weary hearts That do their heavy work unrecognized. "What, not illustrious, did you think of us, Mere stony echoes of your nightingale, And Genius, that doth call us for her use? You knew us faithful in the prayer, the march, The funeral dirge, and crowned us? God reward!'

Methinks, a Prima Donna of your mind, However earnest for her due repose, Would turn the eyes that con to-morrow's task Beyond this evening's laurels, bright'ning, back, And send this Praiser happy to his home With one approving look, whose warmth should say: The flowers thus sent, fell nearest to my heart."

Florence Nightingale and her Praisers

Nay, frailer women, strong in love alone, Have followed as the blast of battle led, Pressing on spear and sword the ill-armed breast, Content to perish where their soldier bled.

She has sprung forward, an enfranchised stream That runs its errand in the face of day; And where new blessings mark its course benign, Men yield approval to th' unwonted way.

But she had freedom—hearts akin to hers Are held as springs shut up, as fountains sealed, The weighty masonry of life must part Before their hidden virtue be revealed.

Women who weave in hope the daily web, Who leave the deadly depths of passion pure, Who hold the stormy powers of will attent, As Heaven directs, to act, or to endure;

No multitude strews branches in their way, Not in their praise the loud arena strives, Still as a flameless incense rises up The costly patience of their offered lives.

Such love bears not the sunlight on its breast, But by the devious conduit underneath,

It reaches you, unrecognized, unknown Save in the brow suffused, and dewy breath.

Then count not the heroic heart alone In those whom action and result make great, Since the sublime of Nature's excellence Lies in enduring, as achieving Fate.

Furthermore

Ev'n Nature, partial mother, reasons thus: To these the duty, and to those the right;" Our faithful service earns us sufferance, But we shall love you in your own despite.

To you, the thrilling meed of praise belongs, To us, the painfuller desert may fall; We touch the brim, where ye exhaust the bowl, But where ye pay your due, we yield our all.

Honour all women—weigh with reverend hand The worth of those unproved, or overtried, And, when ye praise the perfect work of One, Say not, ye are shamed in her, but glorified.

Privation

The blind majestic bard, whose tearless eyes Were patient in the weariness of night; And one, his brother in a kindred art, Bereft of melody, as he of light;

Fruition was not for them to the sense— The world for one, for one the swelling tone; "We work—"they said, and in high toil abode, And: "we have wrought," they uttered, and passed on.

My Milton! thou whose holy heart forbore The doubtful rite of uncongenial shrines, But gave the perfect tribute of its faith, Before thee now the true Shekinah shines.

Seeking a nearer moral for my song, I find two poets of the latter days, Branded by Nature with the fatal gift, Pilgrims from birth, but in divergent ways.

This rode his blood's high mettle to the full, Goading satiety with unblest wine; This to a meeker measure moved along, Palm-heralded, as Christ in Palestine.

This, like a meteor, streamed abroad in air,— This, like a star, abode in distant light; The one scared noonday with his crimson glare, The other was the beacon-guide of night.

The one with lordly gesture trod the earth, Gathering all pleasure, innocent or ill; The other bared his reverend brow to heav'n, And gleaned from Nature with a sober will.

The one awoke the echoes of the Past, Those sacred voices of the marble halls, And bade them bear a demon-strophe wild To mock, afar, his gray ancestral walls.

The other was penurious of his days In those fair hills, beneath that friendly heaven; His were the deep, synthetic harmonies, The joy of task and recompense God-given.

One, in a wild convulsion ceased to be, And if he went to bane or bliss, none knew; The other stood, serenely crowned with age, And steadfast passed to God, if God be true.

Oh! at the Muse-crowned temple of the one, And at the other's lonely sepulchre Pause thou, my soul, and ponder deeply thence The paths of Fate, and choosing, dare not err.

Hast thou the high, heroic heart to walk, Or wait, receptive of the distant tone! Or wouldst thou sit to revel, and crush out Lifeblood of others, mingled with thine own?

Wilt thou rest guardian of these simpler loves, Leading the dull, the passionless, the weak? Or, desperate, rush to Lido's charmèd shore, To fling wild kisses on a hireling's cheek?

Oh! treasured in the hand.that cannot fail Let thy poor life, through want and waiting lie, Radiant in anguish, comforted of tears, If the deep voice but whisper: it is I.

On receiving a Volume after the Death of the Author

These, thy recorded musings, wake again The heart's deep longing for a music gone; Thy vibrant voice, whose clear attempered tone Was like the martyr's rapture-cry in pain.

Shattered lies now the heav'n-strung instrument— Sure, Death must grow harmonious on the spot; While, at the grave that holds, but has thee not, Sad Echo, waiting, o'er the urn is bent.

To that far shrine, through all the Winter's woe, With hands enclasped, that strive to lift on high Affections born and centred humanly, In solemn, measured cadence would I go;

Making thy grave a station to mine own, Seeking in depths of prayer some deathless thought, Some jewel of the soul, divinely wrought, To hang where purest gems have place alone.

But, held by ties that let me not depart On Grief's wild sweeping pinions any whither, I can but send my pilgrim wishes thither, Folding thy dear, dumb volume to my heart.

Not each for each can live, but each for other,— Only the dead in God are isolate; He shall accord me patience for my fate Whose holy rest doth gather thee, my Brother.

Via Felice

They lent their solemn cadence To all the thoughtless day; The heart, so oft it heard them, Was lifted up to pray.

And where the lamp was lighted At twilight, on the wall, Serenely sat Madonna, And smiled to bless us all.

Those voices, illustrating Their bargains, from the street, Shaming Thought's narrow meanness With music infinite.

Those men of stately stature, Those women, fair of shape, That watched the chestnuts roasting, The fig, and clustered grape;

All this, my daily pleasure That made none poor to give, Was near the Via Felice Where Horace loved to live.

I see him from the window That ne'er my heart forgets, He buys from yonder maiden My morning violets.

Not ill he chose those flowers With mild, reproving eyes, Emblems of tender chiding, And love divinely wise.

For his were generous learning, And reconciling Art; Oh! not with fleeting presence My friend and I could part.

His work of consolation Abode when he was gone, A tower of Beauty lifted From ruins widely strewn.

Our own inconstant heavens Were o'er us, when we met Before a longer parting, Not seen, nor dreamed of, yet.

'T was when the Spring's soft breathing Restores the frozen sense, And Patience, dull with Winter, Is glad in recompense.

There, in our pleasant converse, As by one thought, we said: This is the Via Felice, Where friends together tread.

Again, my friend turned seaward, Again, athwart the wave He flung the wayward fortune His fiery planet gave.

And, in that heart of Paris That hides distress and wrong So cold, with show and splendor, So dumb, with dance and song;

Drawn, by some hidden current Of unknown agony, To seek a throb responsive, Our Horace sank to die.

Oh! not where he is lying With dear ancestral dust, Not where his household traces Grow sad and dim with rust;

But in the Ancient City And from the quaint old door, I'm watching, at my window His coming, evermore.

For Death's Eternal city Has yet some happy street, 'T is in the Via Felice My friend and I shall meet.

Dilexit Multum

Yet take my offering—Nature's simple skill Shall stead for thee the perfect form of Art, And my love's record, like to Mary's, dwell Rich in the shattered vase and lavish heart.

The Park

Come with hands clasped full of meekness, let thy stately robings fall Till the dust of grief besmirch them, wear Love's cypress, bear his pall; Bring thy perfumes—let them mingle with the costly gift of tears, They should solemnize a sorrow that makes poor the coming years.

Here where, broidered like a blazon on the scutcheon of a shrine, Gainst the fading sky so pearly, sable shows the tapering pine, Here where dies the wind the softest, like hushed pinions of a dove, I will fold thee, oh belovéd! in the fervor of my love.

I will lead thee where we wandered, in the time long fled away, Thou shalt rest where we were wont to shield us from the summer day; It was gorgeous in its beauty, but a joyaunce more divine Filled the heart of one whose fingers bore the tendril clasp of thine.

Leave thy tremblings, leave thy doubtings, let thy sins stand out of sight; They are quick enough to seize thee—Law and Conscience claim their right; Rest one moment from the summing thy offences and thy meed, Leave the weary task to Love whose grace is wider than thy need.

Gather tender thoughts about thee, gather holy hope and power, Call the names of all thy dear ones, let them keep with thee this hour, Hold the shadows of thy children in thine arms and on thy knee, With the rapture, dear and costly, that attends Nativity.

Soft, the angels close around thee—so, thou walkest dream-pursued, Golden cords of help unwinding, in the circling solitude, Seest stars immortal kindling from the failing suns that set, And believest, though thy friend is gone, his love surrounds thee yet.