-Beyond the sphere of Time,
And Sin and Fate's control,
Serene in endless prime
Of body and of soul.
That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll not forgo;
Eternal be the sleep,
Unless to waken so!
WHAT avails that winter die,
If death die not, winter's sting? Hopeless, loveless, man would lie, Crown'd not Eastertide his spring.
Who would hope at all, or strive
Overwhelm'd by fatal force?
Who would love at all, to grieve
Parted by that dire divorce?
But from yonder gulf of gloom
Not the Lord alone is risen ;
Hope with Him has left the tomb,
Love with Him has burst the prison.
Saviour, for this other spring,
Scents of Eden breathing near,
Gratefully these gifts we bring,
Flowerets of the freshening year.
The Fountain of Tears
IF you go over desert and mountain,
Far into the country of Sorrow,
To-day and to-night and to-morrow,
And maybe for months and for years;
You shall come with a heart that is bursting
For trouble and toiling and thirsting,
You shall certainly come to the fountain
At length,-to the Fountain of Tears.
Very peaceful the place is, and solely
For piteous lamenting and sighing,
And those who come living or dying
Alike from their hopes and their fears;
Full of cypress-like shadows the place is,
And statues that cover their faces:
But out of the gloom springs the holy
And beautiful Fountain of Tears.
And it flows and it flows with a motion
So gentle and lovely and listless,
And murmurs a tune so resistless
To him who hath suffer'd and hears
You shall surely-without a word spoken,
Kneel down there and know your heart broken,
And yield to the long-curb'd emotion
That day by the Fountain of Tears.
For it grows and it grows, as though leaping
Up higher the more one is thinking;
And ever its tunes go on sinking
More poignantly into the ears:
Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain,
Reach'd after dry desert and mountain,
You shall fall down at length in your weeping
And bathe your sad face in the tears.
Then alas! while you lie there a season
And sob between living and dying,
And give up the land you were trying
To find 'mid your hopes and your fears;
-O the world shall come up and pass
o'er you,
Strong men shall not stay to care for you,
Nor wonder indeed for what reason
Your way should seem harder than theirs.
But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting
Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses,
Nor caring to raise your wet tresses
And look how the cold world appears—
O perhaps the mere silences round you—
All things in that place Grief hath found you—
Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting,
May soothe you somewhat through your tears.
You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes
Your face, as though some one had kiss'd you;
Or think at least some one who miss'd you
Had sent you a thought,-if that cheers;
Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken: —Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears.
And the tears shall flow faster and faster,
Brim over and baffle resistance,
And roll down blear'd roads to each distance
Of past desolation and years;
Till they cover the place of each sorrow, And leave you no past and no morrow: For what man is able to master
And stem the great Fountain of Tears?
But the floods and the tears meet and gather;
The sound of them all grows like thunder:
-O into what bosom, I wonder,
Is pour'd the whole sorrow of years?
For Eternity only seems keeping
Account of the great human weeping:
May God, then, the Maker and Father-
May He find a place for the tears!
ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY
O-MORROW, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
ANY are the sayings of the wise,
In antient and in modern books enroll'd
Extolling patience as the truest fortitude;
And to the bearing well of all calamities,
All chances incident to man's frail life,
Consolatories writ
With studied argument and much persuasion sought,
Lenient of grief and anxious thought;
But with th' afflicted in his pangs their sound
Little prevails, or rather seems a tune
Harsh, and of dissonant mood from his complaint,
Unless he feel within
Some source of consolation from above;
Secret refreshings that repair his strength
And fainting spirits uphold.
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