Who order'd, that their longings fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renders vain their deep desire ?—
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat,
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,—
"Forever-never!
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber door,
"Forever-never!
Through days of sorrow and days of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats these words of awe,—
"Forever-never!
There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime!
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-
"Forever-never!
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,-
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,—
"Forever-never!
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
"Forever-never!
THOU art the source and centre of all minds,
Their only point of rest, Eternal Word!
From Thee departing they are lost, and rove
At random without honour, hope, or peace.
From Thee is all that soothes the life of man,
His high endeavour, and his glad success,
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
But O Thou bounteous giver of all good,
Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown!
Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor;
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
PEACE be around thee! wherever thou rovest,
May life be for thee one summer's day,
And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lovest,
Come smiling around thy sunny way!
If sorrow e'er this calm should break,
May even thy tears pass off so lightly, That like spring flowers, they'll only make The smiles that follow shine more brightly!
May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all,
And daily dooms some joy to death,
O'er thee let years so gently fall,
They shall not crush one flower beneath! As half in shade and half in sun,
This world along its path advances,
May that side the sun's upon
Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!
ANGELS thy old friends there shall greet thee,
Glad at their own home now to meet thee.
All thy good works which went before,
And waited for thee at the door,
Shall own thee there and all in one
Weave a constellation
Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,
Shall build up thy triumphant brows
All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,
And thy pains set bright upon thee:
All thy sorrows here shall shine,
And thy suff'rings be divine.
Tears shall take comfort and turn gems,
And wrongs repent to diadems.
Ev'n thy deaths shall live, and new
Dress the soul, which late they slew.
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars,
As keep account of the Lamb's wars.
Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ
Love's noble history, with wit
Taught thee by none but Him, while here
They feed our souls, shall clothe them there.
Each heavenly word, by whose hid flame
Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same
Shall flourish on thy brows, and be
Both fire to us, and flame to thee:
Whose light shall live bright, in thy face
By glory, in our hearts by grace.
Thou shalt look round about, and see
Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be
Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows:
The virgin births with which thy spouse
Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now,
And with them all about thee, bow
To Him, "Put on," He'll say, "put on,
My rosy love, that thy rich zone,
Sparkling with the sacred flames
Of thousand souls whose happy names
Heaven keeps upon thy score; thy bright
Life brought them first to kiss the light
That kindled them to stars." And so
Thou with the Lamb thy Lord shalt go,
And wheresoe'er He sets His white
Steps, walk with Him those ways of light,
Which who in death would live to see,
Must learn in life to die like thee.
RICHARD CRASHAW to S. TERESA.
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