VIII. All or nothing, stake it! Trusts he God or no? IX. Ah, "forgive" you bid him? While God's champion lives, Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives. But you must not end my friend ere you begin him; Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him. X. Once more No? - Let go, then! Both the fighters to their places! While I count three, step you back as many paces! AFTER. Take the cloak from his face, and at first How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And, absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change. Ha, what avails death to erase I would we were boys as of old His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn I stand here now, he lies in his place: Cover the face! THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. A PICTURE AT FANO. I. Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave Shall find performed thy special ministry, II. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. III. I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? IV. If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. v. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: VI. Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!) - that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. VII. We were at Fano, and three times we went - My angel with me too: and since I care VIII. And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrongI took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. III. I crossed a moor, with a name of its own IV. For there I picked up on the heather, POPULARITY. I. Stand still, true poet that you are! II. My star, God's glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of his which leads you, Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless he needs you, Just saves your light to spend? III. His clenched hand shall unclose at last, Accepts the coming ages' duty, IV. That day, the earth's feast-master's brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising; "Others give best at first, but thou Forever set'st our table praising, Keep'st the good wine till now!" V. Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder: I'll say a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land. VI. Who has not heard how Tyrian shells VII. And each bystander of them all How depths of blue sublimed some pall To get which, pricked a king's ambition; Worth sceptre, crown and ball. VIII. Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh, IX. Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house, X. Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the bluebell's womb What time, with ardors manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold. XI. Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof! The liquor filtered by degrees, While the world stands aloof. |