Soars with it to the eternal shore,

Where sight or thought of evil comes no more.

Love sitteth now above,

Enthroned in glory,

And yet hath deigned to move

Through life's sad story.

Fair Name, we are only thine!

Thou only art divine!

Be with us to the end, for there is none

But thou to bind together God and Man in one.

FROM "THE ODE OF LIFE”

THE ODE OF AGE

There is a sweetness in autumnal days,
Which many a lip doth praise;

When the earth, tired a little and grown mute
Of song, and having borne its fruit,

Rests for a little space ere winter come.

It is not sad to turn the face towards home,
Even though it shows the journey nearly done;
It is not sad to mark the westering sun,

Even though we know the night doth come.
Silence there is, indeed, for song,

Twilight for noon;

But for the steadfast soul and strong
Life's autumn is as June.

As June itself, but clearer, calmer far;
Here come no passion-gusts to mar,
No thunder-clouds or rains to beat
To earth the blossoms and the wheat,
No high tumultuous noise

Of youth's self-seeking joys,

But a cold radiance white

As the moon shining on a frosty night.

To-morrow is as yesterday, scant change,

Little of new or strange,

No glamour of false hope to daze,

Nor glory to amaze,

Even the old passionate love of love or child

A temperate affection mild,

And ever the recurring thought

Returning, though unsought:

How strange the scheme of things! how brief a

span

The little life of man!

And ever as we mark them, fleeter and more fleet, The days and months and years, gliding with wingèd

feet.

And ever as the hair grows grey,

And the eyes dim,

And the lithe form which toiled the live-long day,

The stalwart limb,

Begin to stiffen and grow slow,

A higher joy they know :

To spend the season of the waning year,

Ere comes the deadly chill,

In works of mercy, and to cheer

The feet which toil against life's rugged hill;

To have known the trouble and the fret,

To have known it, and to cease

In a pervading peace,

Too calm to suffer pain, too living to forget,
And reaching down a succouring hand
To where the sufferers are,

To lift them to the tranquil heights afar,
Whereon Time's conquerors stand.

And when the precious hours are done,
How sweet at set of sun

To gather up the fair laborious day!—
To have struck some blow for right
With tongue or pen;

To have smoothed the path to light
For wandering men;

To have chased some fiend of Ill away;
A little backward to have thrust

The instant powers of Drink and Lust;
To have borne down Giant Despair;

To have dealt a blow at Care!

How sweet to light again the glow

Of warmer fires than youth's, tho' all the blood runs

slow!

Oh! is there any joy,

Of all that come to girl or boy

Or manhood's calmer weal and ease,

To vie with these?

Here is some fitting profit day by day,

Which none can render less;

Some glorious gain Fate cannot take away,

Nor Time depress.

Oh, brother, fainting on your road!

Poor sister, whom the righteous shun!

There comes for you, ere life and strength be done, An arm to bear your load.

A feeble body, maybe bent, and old,

But bearing 'midst the chills of age

A deeper glow than youth's; a nobler rage;
A calm heart yet not cold.

A man or woman, withered perhaps, and spent,
To whom pursuit of gold or fame

Is as a fire grown cold, an empty name,
Whom thoughts of Love no more allure
Who in a self-made nunnery dwell,

A cloistered calm and pure,

A beatific peace greater than tongue can tell.

And sweet it is to take,

With something of the eager haste of youth,
Some fainter glimpse of Truth

For its own sake;

To observe the ways of bee, or plant, or bird;

To trace in Nature the ineffable Word,
Which by the gradual wear of secular time,
Has worked its work sublime;