Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,
Weariness not on your brow.
Ye alight in our van! at your voice,
Panic, despair, flee away.
Ye move through the ranks, recall
The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
Praise, re-inspire the brave!
Order, courage, return.
Eyes rekindling, and prayers,
Follow your steps as ye go.
Ye fill up the gaps in our files,
Strengthen the wavering line,
Stablish, continue our march,
On, to the bound of the waste,
On, to the City of God!

M. Arnold

CCCLXXXVIII

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL

The blesséd damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift,

For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back

Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseemed she scarce had been a day

One of God's choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers;

Albeit, to them she left, her day

Had counted as ten years.

(To one, it is ten years of

years, Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o'er me--her hair

Fell all about my face .
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.

The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God's house

That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth

The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence

She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in Heaven, across the flood

Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth

Spins like a fretful midge.

Heard hardly, some of her new friends

Amid their loving games
Spake evermore among themselves

Their virginal chaste names;
And the souls mounting up to God

Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped

Out of the circling charm; Until her bosom must have made

The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw

Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove

Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when

The stars sang in their spheres.
The sun was gone now; the curled moon

Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now

She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars

Had when they sang together.
(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song,

Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells

Possessed the mid-day air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side

Down all the echoing stair?)
'I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come,' she said.
'Have I not prayed in Heaven?-on earth,

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

And shall I feel afraid?

'When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,
I'll take his hand and go with him

To the deep wells of light;
We will step down as to a stream,

And bathe there in God's sight.
'We two will stand beside that shrine,

Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps are stirred continually

With prayer sent up to God :
And see our old prayers, granted, melt

Each like a little cloud.

“We two will lie i’ the shadow of

That living mystic tree,
Within whose secret growth the Dove

Is sometimes felt to be,
While every leaf that His plumes touch

Saith His Name audibly. ‘And I myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here; which his voice

Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause,

Or some new thing to know.'
(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st !

Yea, one wast thou with me
That once of old. But shall God lift

To endless unity
The soul whose likeness with thy soul

Was but its love for thee?) "We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves

Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names

Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

Margaret and Rosalys.
'Circlewise sit they, with bound locks

And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame

Weaving the golden thread,
To fashion the birth-robes for them

Who are just born, being dead.
'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:

Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,

Not once abashed or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve

My pride, and let me speak.

'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads

Bowed with their aureoles :
And angels meeting us shall sing

To their citherns and citoles.

“There will I ask of Christ the Lord

Thus much for him and me :
Only to live as once on earth

With Love,-only to be,
As then awhile, for ever now

Together, I and he.'
She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild, -
*All this is when he comes.' She ceased.

The light thrilled towards her, filled
With angels in strong level flight.

Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path

Was vague in distant spheres :
And then she cast her arms along

The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)

D. G. Rossetti

CCCLXXXIX

SONG
When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress tree :
Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.