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450
A PROTEST, ETC.


A PROTEST.

This is the sabbath season of the year,
When summer silence falleth on the earth, —
When truce hath come to husbandry and mirth,
To mower's scythe and wanton wood-notes clear.

The world is still, as if with holy fear,
And from its heart, through lily-bell and rose,
A stream of incense rises up, and flows
God wards with soft repinings for his ear.

And I would with the sabbath world take rest,
Could breathe my life out with the summer's sigh;
Could lay it at God's feet if, dispossest,
My soul might feed new life as glad as high;
But of no dweller on this earth unblest, —
This fair, lost world, where mortals love and die!

Spectator.Emily Pfeiffer




A BURIAL AT HIGHGATE. — July 23.

[In Memoriam L. Y. P., Twin Sister of Mrs. Julius
Hare, ob. July 17, 1877.]

True twin in heart of that pure soul,
True sharer in that saintly life,
Thy suffering now is past, and strife
Finds issue at the victor's goal.

Thine now the joy, the love, the hope
Of those who see with vision clear
The purpose working far and near,
The thousand paths that upward slope.

Through mists and darkness, weal and woe,
To where nought endeth incomplete,
Where all the loved and lost ones meet,
And love is more than we can know.

And, there the sister-spirits rest,
And tell of sorrows that have taught
The lesson, all so dearly bought,
In blessing others, to be blest, —

With words of hope, and peerless skill
To raise weak souls from their despair,
To breathe awhile serener air
Above the clouds of passing ill.
 
And he is there who taught our youth,
Husband and brother, child of light,
Whose faith victorious ends in sight,
Knowing, not guessing, now the truth.

And he, the prophet, priest, and sage,
Whose voice still rings in listening ears,
Who bade us cast away our fears,
Nor heed, though wild storms round us rage, —

He, too, is there; and can we dream
Their joy is other now than when
They dwelt among the sons of men,
As walking in the eternal gleam?

Are there no souls behind the veil
That need the help of guiding hand;
Weak hearts that cannot understand
Why earth's poor dreams of heaven must fail?

Are there no prison-doors to ope,
No lambs to gather in the fold,
No treasure-house of new and old,
To fill desire and answer hope?

We know not; but if life be there
The outcome and the crown of this,
What else can make their perfect bliss
Than in the Master's work to share?

Resting, but not in slumbrous ease,
Working, but not in wild unrest,
Still ever blessing, ever blest,
They see us, as the Father sees.

Spectator.E. H. P.




"HARMONY" (by Frank Dicksee).

No. 14, in the Royal Academy.

She sang until she stood, a pure white soul,
Within the open gates of Paradise;
And he, the listener, saw through her clear eyes
Life's loveliness. The warm light downward stole
Through golden hair that made an aureole
For her uplifted face, which lilywise
Rose o'er a leaf-hued gown. Her song did rise
Accordant with a certain ancient scroll,
Whence she had learned it once, with vague regret
For the musician, dead ere she was born.
The harmony he dreamed had been so sweet,
That as he stood in heaven he heard it yet, —
Like God, who in creation's primal morn
Had made earth's melody therewith complete.

Spectator.A. Matheson