XXX. WITH trembling fingers did we weave At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol'd, making vain pretence We paused the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho' every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang : We ceased a gentler feeling crept Upon us surely rest is meet: They rest,' we said, their sleep is sweet,' And silence follow'd, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change; Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather'd power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.' Rise, happy morn, rise holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night : The light that shone when Hope was born. E XXXI. WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary's house return'd, Was this demanded-if he yearn'd To hear her weeping by his grave? Where wert thou, brother, those four days?' There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown'd The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unreveal'd; He told it not; or something seal'd The lips of that Evangelist. XXXII. HER eyes are homes of silent prayer, But, he was dead, and there he sits, Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? XXXIII. O THOU that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views ; Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood See thou, that countest reason ripe Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev'n for want of such a type. |