Immortality.

FOIL'D by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say,
The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.
And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn
The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they,
Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day,
Support the fervours of the heavenly morn?
No, no! the energy of life may be
Kept on after the grave, but not begun;
And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing—only he,
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.

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
Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave.

And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,
With eye suffused but heart inspired true,
On those walls subterranean, where she hid
Her head 'mid ignominy, death, and tombs,
She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew-
And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.

Monica's Last Prayer.11

'Ан could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!'—
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!
Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call;
But at God's altar, oh! remember me.

Thus Monica, and died in Italy.

Yet fervent had her longing been, through all
Her course, for home at last, and burial
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea.
Had been! but at the end, to her pure soul
All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap,
And union before God the only care.

Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole.
Yet we her memory, as she pray'd, will keep,
Keep by this: Life in God, and union there!

LYRIC AND DRAMATIC

POEMS.

SWITZERLAND

1. Meeting.

AGAIN I see my bliss at hand,
The town, the lake are here;

My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,12
Unalter'd with the year.

I know that graceful figure fair,
That cheek of languid hue;

I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair,
And those sweet eyes of blue.

Again I spring to make my choice;
Again in tones of ire

I hear a God's tremendous voice:
'Be counsell'd, and retire.'

Ye guiding Powers who join and part,
What would ye have with me?

Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,
And let the peaceful be!

2. Parting.

YE storm-winds of Autumn!
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;

Who cross to the hill-side
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms—

Ye are bound for the mountains!
Ah! with you let me go

Where your cold, distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,

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,
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?

Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?
Ah! it comes nearer-

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!
Ye torrents, I come!

But who is this, by the half-open'd door,
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?

The sweet blue eyes-the soft, ash-colour'd hair—
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear-
The lovely lips, with their arch smile that tells
The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells-
Ah! they bend nearer-

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.
No life but, at moments,
The mountain-bee's hum.
-I come, O ye mountains!
Ye pine-woods, I come!

Forgive me! forgive me!

Ah, Marguerite, fain

Would these arms reach to clasp thee!
But see! 'tis in vain.

N