But he who loves our common Father, hath
All men for brothers, and with God doth joy
In whatsoever worketh for their bliss.
Good Francis called the birds upon his path,
Brethren; to him the fishes were not coy.-
Oh, blest is he that comprehendeth this!
CAMPANELLA (J. A. SYMONDS).
THE Soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter and the crash of worlds.
FOR many books I care not, and my store
Might now suffice me, tho' I had no more
Than God's two Testaments, and then withal
That mighty volume which the world we call!
For these well look'd on, well in mind preserved,
The present age's passages observed,
My private actions seriously o'er-viewed,
My thoughts recall'd, and what of them ensued,
Are books, which better far instruct me can,
Than all the other paper-works of man :
And some of these I may be reading, too,
Where'er I come, or whatsoe'er I do.
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.
WELCOME, wild North-Easter!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr ;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-Easter!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day :
Jovial wind of winter,
Turns us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed beds;
Crisp the lazy dyke ;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild-fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Thro' the black fir forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! the brave North-Easter,
Breast high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Thro' the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you?
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die,
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious south wind
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
'Tis the hard gray weather
Breeds hard Englishmen.
What's the soft south-wester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their true-loves
Out of all the seas;
But the black North-Easter,
Thro' the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come and strong within us
Stir the Viking's blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow, thou wind of God!
HE who for love has undergone
The worst that can befall
Is happier thousandfold than one
Who never loved at all.
A grace within his soul has reigned
Which nothing else can bring ;-
Thank God for all that I have gained
By that high suffering!
The words are utter'd, and they flee,
Deep is their penitential moan,
Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone.
They have declared the spirit's sore,
Sore load, and words can do no more.
Beethoven takes them-those two
Poor, bounded words—and makes them new;
Infinite makes them, makes them young;
Transplants them to another tongue,
Where they can now, without constraint,
Pour all the soul of their complaint,
And roll adown a channel large
The wealth divine they have in charge.
Page after page of music turn,
And still they live, and still they burn,
Perennial, passion-fraught, and free-
Miserere Domine!
THE fables of the world have filched away
The time I had for thinking upon God;
His grace lies buried 'neath oblivion's sod,
Whence springs an evil crop of sins alway.
What makes another wise, leads me astray,
Slow to discern the bad path I have trod : Hope fades; but still desire ascends that God May free me from self-love, my sure decay. Shorten half-way my road to Heaven from earth! Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise, Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage. Teach me to hate the world so little worth,
And all the lovely things I clasp and prize ;
That endless life, ere death, may be my wage.
MICHAEL ANGELO (J. A. SYMONDS).
NOTHING is left or lost-nothing of good,
Or lovely; but whatever its first springs
Has drawn from God, returns to Him again :
That only which 'twere misery to retain
Is taken from you, which to keep were loss
Only the scum, the refuse, and the dross
Are borne away unto the grave of things,
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