Immortality. FOIL'D by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn, The Good Shepherd with the Kid. HE saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried: 10 'Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave.'So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd, The infant Church! of love she felt the tide And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs, Monica's Last Prayer.11 'Ан could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!'— Thus Monica, and died in Italy. Yet fervent had her longing been, through all Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole. LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS. SWITZERLAND 1. Meeting. AGAIN I see my bliss at hand, My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,12 I know that graceful figure fair, I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair, Again I spring to make my choice; I hear a God's tremendous voice: Ye guiding Powers who join and part, Ah, warn some more ambitious heart, 2. Parting. YE storm-winds of Autumn! Who cross to the hill-side Ye are bound for the mountains! Where your cold, distant barrier, Through the loose clouds lifts dimly Its white peaks in air How deep is their stillness! Ah, would I were there! But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook Sweet notes, this way! Hark! fast by the window The rushing winds go, To the ice-cumber'd gorges, The vast seas of snow! There the torrents drive upward Their rock-strangled hum; There the avalanche thunders The hoarse torrent dumb. -I come, O ye mountains! But who is this, by the half-open'd door, The sweet blue eyes-the soft, ash-colour'd hair— Sweet lips, this way! Hark! the wind rushes past us! Ah! with that let me go To the clear, waning hill-side, Unspotted by snow, There to watch, o'er the sunk vale, The frore mountain-wall, Where the niched snow-bed sprays down Its powdery fall. There its dusky blue clusters The aconite spreads; There the pines slope, the cloud-strips Hung soft in their heads. Forgive me! forgive me! Ah, Marguerite, fain Would these arms reach to clasp thee! N |