quation verce. Britvel palm IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and bruté; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made! Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die ; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divinė, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. ✓ We have but faith: we cannot know; And yet we trust it comes from thee, Let knowledge grow from more to more, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seem'd my sin in me, What seem'd my worth since I began; Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. 1849. I. Dorthe wm. J. Rolfe I held it truth, with him who sings Of their dead selves to higher things. not on vices of But who shall so forecast the years calamities bint Or reach a hand thro' time to catch The far-off interest of tears? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, se Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,f-destrume To dance with Death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, 'Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn.' II. Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the underlying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. III. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? 'The stars,' she whispers, 'blindly run; A web is woven across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun : 'And all the phantom, Nature, standsWith all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own, And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind? |