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For an Agony will come,
In the instant waking,
Like a dagger driven home,
Like a nerve in breaking;
Consciousness recovering life
But confounds us in the strife,
Wholly yielded up to Pain,
As when drowned men feel again;
In that rush of gasping thought,
Wo for them that weep not!
Too, too dearly may be bought
Such repose-oh! sleep not!

Rather think the Evil down,
Rather weep it out;
Certain grief remits its frown

Easier than doubt.

There are strong yet gentle powers
In the growth of many hours;
Sorrow longer-lived will gain
Something more of peace than pain,
Such as God's still works possess,
Things that sow or reap not
In the world of more and less,
Live and die, but sleep not.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

WE have watched him to the last
We have seen the dreaded king
Smile pacific, as he past

By that couch of suffering:

Wrinkles of aggressive years,
Channels of recondite tears,
Furrows on the anxious brow

All are smooth as childhood's now. -
Death, as seen by men in dreams,
Something stern and cruel seems,
But his face is not the same,
When he comes into the room,
Takes the hand, and names the name,
Seals the eyes with tender gloom,
Saying, "Blessed are the laws
To which all God's creatures bend :
Mortal! fear me not, because
Thine inevitable friend!"

So when all the limbs were still,
Moved no more by sense or will,
Reve'rent hands the body laid
In the Church's pitying shade,
With the pious rites that fall,
Like the rain-drops, upon all.
What could man refuse or grant
The spiritual inhabitant,
Who so long had ruled within
With power to sin or not to sin?
Nothing. Hope, and hope alone,
Mates with death. Upon a stone
Let the simple name be writ,
Traced upon the infant's front
Years ago and under it,

As with Christian folk is wont,
"Requiescat" or, may be,
Symbol letters, R. I. P.

Rest is happy-rest is right,

Rest is precious in God's sight.
But if He, who lies below,
Out of an abundant heart
Drawing remedies for woe,
Never wearied to impart
Blessings to his fellow-men;
If he never rested then,

But each harvest gathered seed
For the future word and deed,—

And the darkness of his kind
Filled him with such endless ruth,
That the very light of truth

Pained him walking 'mid the blind,—
How, when some transcendant change
Gives his being boundless range,—
When he knows not time or space,
In the nearness of God's face,-
In the world of spirits how
Shall that soul be resting now?
While one creature is unblest,
How can such as he have rest?

"Rest in Peace," the legend runs,
Rest is sweet to Adam's sons.
But can he whose busy brain
Worked within this hollow skull,
Now his zeal for truth restrain,
Now his subtle fancy dull,
When he wanders spirit-free
In his young immortality!
While on earth he only bore
Life, as it was linked with lore,

And the infinite increase

Of, knowledge was his only peace;
Till that knowledge be possest
How can such a mind have rest?

Rest is happy-rest is meet
For well-worn and weary feet,
Surely not for him, on whom
Ponderous stands the pompous tomb,
Prompt to blind the Future's eyes
With gilt deceit, and blazoned lies:
Him, who never used his powers
To speed for good the waiting hours,
Made none wiser for his seeing,
Made none better for his being;
Closed his eyes, lest others' woes
Should disturb his base repose;

Catching at each selfish zest;
How can he have right to rest?

Rather we would deem him driven

Anywhere in search of heaven,

Failing ever in the quest,

Till he learns it is not given

That man should by himself be blest.

Here we struggle with the light,

And when comes the fated night,
Into Nature's lap we fall,

Like tired children, one and all.
Day and Labour, Night and Rest,
Come together in our mind,
And we image forth the blest

To eternal calm resigned:

Yet it may be that the' abyss

Of the lost is only this,

That for them all things to come

Are inanimate and dumb,

And immortal life they steep
In dishonourable sleep :

While no power of pause is given
To the inheritors of Heaven;
And the holiest still are those
Who are furthest from repose,
And yet onward, onward, press
To a loftier godliness;
Still becoming, more than being,
Apprehending, more than seeing,
Feeling, as from orb to orb

In their awful course they run,
How their souls new light absorb
From the self-existing One,--
Demiurgos, throned above,

Mind of Mind, and Love of Love.

A SONG OF THOUGHTS.

LET the lays from poet-lips

Shadow forth the speech of heaven,—

Let melodious airs eclipse

All delight to senses given;

Yet to these my notes and words

Listen with your heart alone,

While the Thought that best accords

Makes a music of its own,

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