English

O bright Ideals, how ye shine
Aloft in realms of air!
Ye pour your streams of light divine
Above our low despair.

Shine on, shine on through darkest night,
Nor let your glories pale!
Some stronger soul may win the height,
Where weaker ones must fail.

And this one thought of hope and trust
Comes with its soothing balm,
As here I lay my brow in dust,
And breathe my lowly psalm, —

That not for heights of victory won,
But those I tried to gain,

TO CRITIAS

" Why, when the world's great mind
Hath finally inclined,
Why," you say, Critias, " be debating still?
Why, with these mournful rhymes
Learn'd in more languid climes,
Blame our activity
Who, with such passionate will,
Are what we mean to be?"

Critias, long since, I know

Thirsting for a living spring,
Seeking for a higher home,
Resting where our souls must cling,
Trusting, hoping, Lord, we come.

Glorious hopes our spirits fill,
When we feel that thou art near:
Father, then our fears are still,
Then the soul's bright end is clear.

Life's hard conflict we would win,
Read the meaning of life's frown;
Change the thorn-bound wreath of sin
For the spirit's starry crown.

Make us beautiful within
By thy Spirit's holy light;
Guard us when our faith burns dim,

TO FAUSTA

Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
  Like the wave;
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.
 Love lends life a little grace,
 A few sad smiles; and then,
 Both are laid in one cold place,
  In the grave.

Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die
  Like spring flowers;
Our vaunted life is one long funeral.
 Men dig graves with bitter tears
 For their dead hopes; and all,
 Mazed with doubts and sick with fears,
  Count the hours.

We count the hours! These dreams of ours,

DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN

Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes?
Who hid such import in an infant's gloom?
Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise?
Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom?

Lo! sails that gleam a moment and are gone;
The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier.
Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on,
Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near.

But thou, whom superfluity of joy
Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain,
Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy—

Silent she stood before me, in the light
And majesty of beauty; and her eye
Was teeming with the visions of her soul; —
She stood before me in a veil of white,
The image of her bosom's purity,
And loveliness enveloped her, as bright
As when, at set of sun, the clouds unroll,
Pavilioning the dusky throne of night.
There is a spirit in the kindling glance
Of pure and lofty beauty, which doth quell
Each darker passion; and as heroes fell
Before the terror of Minerva's lance,
So beauty, armed with virtue, bows the soul

Breathe on me, Breath of God!
Fill me with life anew,
That I may love what thou dost love,
And do what thou wouldst do.

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
Until my heart is pure,
Until with thee I will one will
To do and to endure!

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
Blend all my soul with thine,
Until this earthly part of me
Glows with thy fire divine!

Breathe on me, Breath of God!
So shall I never die,
But live with thee the perfect life
Of thine eternity.

The light appears, the light appears!
The light is good,
The sparrow is on the tree,
The hen is on the perch,
The sleep of lazymen is a year,
Workman, rise and commence thy work!

The gates of heaven are opened,
The throne of gold was erected,
Christ was sitting on it,
The Illuminator was standing,
He had taken the golden pen,
And wrote great and small.
Sinners were weeping,
The just were playing.

Come, thou Almighty Will!
Our fainting bosoms fill
With thy great power;
Strength of our good intents,
Our tempted hour's Defence,
Calm of faith's confidence,
Come, in this hour!

Come, thou most tender Love!
Within our spirits move,
Their sweetest guest;
Extinguish passion's fire,
Exalt each low desire,
To deeds of love inspire,
Quickener and Rest!

Come, Light serene and still!
Our darkened spirits fill
With thy clear day;
Guide of the feeble sight,

It was the hour of moonlight, and the bells
Had rung their curfew tones, and they were still;
The echo died around the distant hill,
Sinking in faint and fainter falls and swells,
Accordant with the fitful wind, that blew
Over the new-mown meadow, where the dew
Stood twinkling on the closely shaven stems,
Glittering as 't were a carpet sown with gems;
And from the winding river there arose
A mist, that curled in volumed folds, and gave
A snowy mantle to the stealing wave,
Like that which fancy, love-enchanted, throws