Marks the passing of the trial,
Proves the presence of the sun.
Look, look up, in starry passion,
To the throne above the spheres!
Learn, the spirit's gravitation

Still must differ from the tear's.
Hope,--with all the strength thou usest
In embracing thy despair.
Love, -the earthly love thou losest
Shall return to thee more fair.
Work,-make clear the forest-tangles
Of the wildest stranger-land.
Trust,--the blessed deathly angels
Whisper, 'Sabbath hours at hand!'
By the heart's wound when most gory,
By the longest agony,
Smile!-Behold, in sudden glory

The TRANSFIGURED smiles on thee! And ye lifted up your head, and it seemed as if He said,

'My Beloved, is it so?

Have ye tasted of my woe?

Of my Heaven ye shall not fail!'—
He stands brightly where the shade is,
With the keys of Death and Hades,
And there ends the mournful tale.-
So hopefully ye think upon the Dead.

NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN.

NIGHT.

'NEATH my moon what doest thou,
With a somewhat paler brow
Than she giveth to the ocean?
He, without a pulse or motion,
Muttering low before her stands,
Lifting his invoking hands,
Like a seer before a sprite,
To catch her oracles of light.
But thy soul out-trembles now
Many pulses on thy brow!

Where be all thy laughters clear,
Others laughed alone to hear?

Where, thy quaint jests, said for fame?

Where, thy dances, mixed with game?
Where, thy festive companies,
Moonèd o'er with ladies' eyes.

All more bright for thee, I trow?
'Neath my moon, what doest thou?

THE MERRY MAN.

I AM digging my warm heart,
Till I find its coldest part.
I am digging wide and low,
Further than a spade will go;
Till that, when the pit is deep
And large enough, I there may heap

All my present pain and past

Joy, dead things that look aghast
By the daylight.-Now 'tis done.
Throw them in, by one and one!
I must laugh, at rising sun.

Memories of fancy's golden

Treasures which my hands have holden,
Till the chillness made them ache.
Of childhood's hopes, that used to wake
If birds were in a singing strain,
And for less cause, sleep again.
Of the moss seat in the wood,
Where I trysted solitude.
Of the hill-top, where the wind
Used to follow me behind,
Then in sudden rush to blind
Both my glad eyes with my hair,
Taken gladly in the snare.
Of the climbing up the rocks,-
Of the playing 'neath the oaks,
Which retain beneath them now
Only shadow of the bough.
Of the lying on the grass
While the clouds did overpass,
Only they, so lightly driven,
Seeming betwixt me and Heaven!
Of the little prayers serene,
Murmuring of earth and sin.
Of large-leaved philosophy
Leaning from my childish knee.
Of poetic book sublime,

Soul-kissed for the first dear time,—
Greek or English,—

-ere I knew

Life was not a poem too.

Throw them in, by one and one!

I must laugh, at rising sun.

Of the glorious ambitions,

Yet unquenched by their fruitions.
Of the reading out the nights.
Of the straining at mad heights.
Of achievements, less descried
By a dear few, than magnified.
Of praises, from the many earned,
When praise from love was undiscerned.
Of the sweet reflecting gladness,
Softened by itself to sadness.-
Throw them in, by one and one!
I must laugh, at rising sun.

What are these? more, more than these!
Throw in, dearer memories!—

Of voices-whereof but to speak,

Makes mine own all sunk and weak.

Of smiles, the thought of which is sweeping All my soul to floods of weeping.

Of looks, whose absence fain would weigh My looks to the ground for aye.

Of clasping hands-ah me! I wring

Mine, and in a tremble fling

Downward, downward, all this paining!

Partings, with the sting remaining.

Meetings, with a deeper throe,

Since the joy is ruined so.

Changes, with a fiery burning

(Shadows upon all the turning.)

Thoughts of-with a storm they came-
Them, I have not breath to name.
Downward, downward, be they cast
In the pit! and now at last

My work beneath the moon is done,
And I shall laugh, at rising sun.

But let me pause or ere I cover
All my treasures darkly over.
I will speak not in thine ears,
Only tell my beaded tears
Silently, most silently!
When the last is calmly told,
Let that same moist rosary,
With the rest sepulchred be.
Finished now. The darksome mould
Sealeth up the darksome pit.

I will lay no stone on it:
Grasses I will sow instead,
Fit for Queen Titania's tread;
Flowers, encoloured with the sun,
And at a written upon none.
Thus, whenever, saileth by
The Lady World of dainty eye,
Not a grief shall here remain,
Silken shoon to damp or stain;
And while she lisps, 'I have not seen
Any place more smooth and clean'..
Here she cometh!-Ha, ha!—who
Laughs as loud as I can do?