He said, from life and death gone home. Amen: even so, Lord Jesus, come!

But oh! what human tongue can speak That day when Michael came* to break From the tir'd spirit, like a veil,

Its covenant with Gabriel

Endured at length unto the end?
What human thought can apprehend
That mystery of motherhood

When thy Beloved at length renew'd
The sweet communion severèd,—
His left hand underneath thine head
And His right hand embracing thee?——

Lo! He was thine, and this is He!

Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope,

That lets me see her standing up

Where the light of the Throne is bright?

Unto the left, unto the right,

The cherubim, succinct, conjoint,
Float inward to a golden point,

本

A Church legend of the Blessed Virgin's death.

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And from between the seraphim

The glory issues for a hymn.

O Mary Mother, be not loth

To listen,-thou whom the stars clothe,

Who seest and mayst not be seen!
Hear us at last, O Mary Queen!

Into our shadow bend thy face,
Bowing thee from the secret place,

O Mary Virgin, full of grace!

DANTE AT VERONA.

'Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares Upon another's bread,-how steep his path Who treadeth up and down another's stairs.'

(Div. Com. Parad. xvii.)

'Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.'

(Div. Com. Purg. xxx.)

OF Florence and of Beatrice

Servant and singer from of old,

O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd
The knell that gave his Lady peace;

And now in manhood flew the dart
Wherewith his City pierced his heart.

Yet if his Lady's home above

Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul;

And if his City held control

To cast the body forth to rove,

The soul could soar from earth's vain throng,

And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song.

Follow his feet's appointed way ;—

But little light we find that clears

The darkness of the exiled years.

Follow his spirit's journey :-nay,

What fires are blent, what winds are blown

On paths his feet may tread alone?

Yet of the twofold life he led

In chainless thought and fettered will

Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still

Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,—

Of the soul's quest whose stern avow
For years had made him haggard now.

Alas! the Sacred Song whereto

Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, But toiled to ope that heavier door Which Florence shut for evermore.

Shall not his birth's baptismal Town
One last high presage yet fulfil,
And at that font in Florence still

His forehead take the laurel-crown?

O God! or shall dead souls deny
The undying soul its prophecy?

Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot
The bitter words he spoke that day
When for some great charge far away
Her rulers his acceptance sought.
'And if I go, who stays ?'-so rose
His scorn - and if I stay, who goes ?'

'Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay :'
(The curled lips mutter): 'and no star
Is from thy mortal path so far

As streets where childhood knew the way.
To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win,
But thine own house they come not in.'

Therefore, the loftier rose the song

To touch the secret things of God,

The deeper pierced the hate that trod

On base men's track who wrought the wrong; Till the soul's effluence came to be

Its own exceeding agony.