But o'er the elements One Hand has sway. The impious Ocean, thrown Or who has eye to trace How the Plague came? Forerun the doublings of the Tempest's race? Thus God has will'd: That man, when fully skill'd, Inflexible to him: That so he may discern His feebleness, And even for earth's success To Him in wisdom turn Who holds for us the keys of either homeEarth and the world-to-come. A VOICE FROM AFAR. Weep not for me! Be blithe as wont, nor tinge with gloom Joy in the gifts Heaven's bounty lends ; I still am near: Watching the smiles I prized on earth, Your converse mild, your blameless mirth; Now too I hear Of whisper'd sounds the tale complete, A sea before The Throne is spread: its pure still glass Share, in the bosom of our rest, HARRIET MARTINEAU. 1802-1876. BENEATH THE ARCH. Beneath this starry arch Nought resteth or is still; But all things hold their march As if by one great Will: Moves one, move all : hark to the foot-fall! On, on, forever! Yon sheaves were once but seed; Will ripens into deed; As cave-drops swell the streams, Day-thoughts feed nightly dreams; And sorrow tracketh wrong, As echo follows song : On, on, forever! By night, like stars on high, The Hours reveal their train; They whisper, and go by: I never watch in vain. Moves one, move all: hark to the foot-fall! They pass the cradle-head, And there a promise shed; They pass the moist new grave, The harvests of all time On, on, forever! THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. SONG OF THE STYGIAN NAIADS. Prosperine may pull her flowers, If Pluto be an amorous king, And comes home nightly laden, Where the Furies made their hay A great fly of Beelzebub's, The bee of hearts, which mortals name Cupid, Love, and Fie-for-shame. Proserpine may weep in rage, But, ere I and you have done Kissing, bathing in the sun, What I have in yonder cage, Bird or serpent, wild or tame, She shall guess and ask in vain : But if Pluto does it again, It shall sing out loud his shame. What hast caught then? what hast caught? Nothing but a poet's thought Which so light did fall and fix Where the Furies made their hay A great fly of Beelzebub's,— The bee of hearts, which mortals name Cupid, Love, and Fie-for-shame. HOW MANY TIMES? How many times do I love thee? Dear! Of a new-fallen year, Whose white and sable hours appear How many times do I love, again? Of evening rain Unraveled from the trembling main SEA SONG. To sea to sea! The calm is o'er : The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, And unseen mermaids' pearly song Fling broad the sail! dip deep the oar! To sea! to sea! our wide-wing'd bark RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 1803 GENIUS. Far out at sea,-the sun was high, Dancing before the fitful gale, Far out at sea. The little wanderer, who had lost Far out at sea. Above, there gleam'd the boundless sky; Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen; Between them danced the butterfly, The spirit-life of this vast scene,— Far out at sea, The tiny soul then soar'd away, Seeking the clouds on fragile wings, Lured by the brighter, purer ray Which hope's ecstatic morning brings, Far out at sea. |