As man's hath of God's heart-
And my life like as thy life to fulfil;
What have our gods then given us?
Ah, to thee

Sister, much more, much happier than to me,

Much happier things they have given, and more of grace

Than falls to man's light race;
For lighter are we, all our love and pain
Lighter than thine, who knowest of
time or place

Thus much, that place nor time
Can heal or hurt or lull or change
again

The singing soul that makes his soul sublime

Who hears the far fall of its fire-fledged rhyme

Fill darkness as with bright and burning rain,

Till all the live gloom inly glows, and light

Seems with the sound to cleave the core of night.

The singing soul that moves thee, and that moved

When thou wast woman, and their songs divine

Sings, when his song sets fire

To the air and clouds that build the dead night's pyre?

O thou of divers-colored mind, O thou Deathless, God's daughter, subtle-souled -lo, now,

Now to the song above all songs, in flight
Higher than the day-star's height,
And sweet as sound the moving wings
of night!

Thou of the divers-colored seat-behold,
Her very song of old!-

O deathless, O God's daughter, subtlesouled!

That same cry through this boskage overhead

Rings round reiterated,

Palpitates as the last palpitated,

The last that panted through her lips and died

Not down this gray north sea's half sapped cliff-side

That crumbles toward the coastline, year by year

More near the sands and near:

The last loud lyric fiery cry she cried, Heard once on heights Leucadian,heard not here.

Not here for this that fires our northland night,

That held the fire eternal; eye and ear Were as a god's to see, a god's to hear, Through all his hours of daily and nightly chime,

The sundering of the two-edged spear of time:

The spear that pierces even the sevenfold shields

Of mightiest Memory, mother of all songs made,

And wastes all songs as roseleaves kissed and frayed

As here the harvest of the foam-flowered fields;

But thine the spear may waste not that he wields

Since first the God whose soul is man's live breath,

The sun whose face hath our sun's face for shade,

Put all the light of life and love and death

Too strong for life, but not for love too

ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CAR

LYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT

Two souls diverse out of our human sight Pass, followed one with love and each with wonder:

The stormy sophist with his mouth of thunder,

Clothed with loud words and mantled in the might

Of darkness and magnificence of night; And one whose eye could smite the night in sunder,

Searching if light or no light were thereunder,

And found in love of loving-kindness light.

Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire

Still following Righteousness with deep desire

Shone sole and stern before her and above

Sure stars and sole to steer by ; but more sweet

Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthly feet,

The light of little children, and their love. April, 1881.

With eyes enkindled as the sun's own sphere,

Hope from the front of youth in godlike cheer

Looks Godward, past the shades where blind men grope

Round the dark door that prayers nor dreams can ope,

And makes for joy the very darkness dear

That gives her wide wings play; nor dreams that fear

At noon may rise and pierce the heart of hope.

Then, when the soul leaves off to dream and yearn,

May truth first purge her eyesight to discern

What once being known leaves time no power to appal;

Till youth at last, ere yet youth be not, learn

The kind wise word that falls from years that fall

66

Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all." 1882.