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Then, although our darling treasures
Vanish from the heart;

Then, although our once-loved pleasures
One by one depart;

Though the tomb looms in the distance,
And the mourning pall,

There is sunshine, and no winter, after all!

D. F. Macarthy

CCXII

DUTY

As the hardy oat is growing,
Howsoe'er the wind may blow;
As the untired stream is flowing,
Whether shines the sun or no :-
Thus, though storm-winds rage about it,
Should the strong plant, Duty, grow—
Thus, with beauty, or without it,

Should the stream of being flow.

CCXIII

LINES

D. F. Macarthy

The lights o'er yonder snowy range,
Shine yet intense, and tender;
Or, slowly passing, only change
From splendour on to splendour.

Before the dying eyes of day
Immortal visions wander;
Dreams prescient of a purer ray,

And morn spread still beyond her.

Lo! heavenward now those gleams expire,
In heavenly melancholy,

The barrier-mountain, peak, and spire,
Relinquishing them slowly.

Thus shine, O God! our mortal powers,
While grief and joy refine them—
And when in death they fade, be ours
Thus gently to resign them!

A. De Vere

CCXIV

SPRING

Once more, through God's high will and grace,
Of hours that each its task fulfils,
Heart-healing Spring resumes its place
The valley through, and scales the hills.

Who knows not Spring? who doubts when blows
Her breath, that Spring is come indeed?

The swallow doubts not; nor the rose
That stirs, but wakes not; nor the weed.

Once more the cuckoo's call I hear;
I know, in many a glen profound,
The earliest violets of the year

Rise up like water from the ground.

The thorn, I know, once more is, white;
And far down many a forest dale,

The anemones in dubious light

Are trembling like a bridal veil.

By streams released that surging flow
From craggy shelf, through sylvan glades,
The pale narcissus, well I know,

Smiles hour by hour on greener shades.

The honey'd cowslip tufts one more
The golden slopes ;-with gradual ray
The primrose stars the rock, and o'er
The wood-path strews its milky way.

I see her not-I feel her near,

As charioted in mildest airs
She sails through yon empyreal sphere,
And in her arms and bosom bears

That urn of flowers, and lustral dews,
Whose sacred balm, on all things shed,

Revives the weak, the old renews,

And crowns with votive wreaths the dead. A. De Vere

CCXV

THANKS FOR A SUMMER'S DAY

The time so tranquil is, and clear,

That nowhere shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,

The air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,

Than they were painted on a wall,

No more they move, or stir.

The ample heaven of fabric sure,
In clearness doth surpass
The crystal and the silver, pure
As clearest polish'd glass.

Bedecked is the sapphire arch

With streaks of scarlet hue ; And preciously from end to end Damasked white and blue.

Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand;
The waves, that weltering wont to be,
Are stable like the land.

The ships becalmed upon the seas,
Hang up their sails to dry;
The herds, beneath their leafy trees,
Amidst the flowers they lie.

The little busy humming bees,
That never think to drone,
On flowers and flourishes of trees
Collect their liquor brown.

The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect,

Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.

Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down,

The smoke goes upright in the air,
From every tower and town.

What pleasure then to walk, and see,
Along a river clear,

The perfect form of every tree
Within the deep appear.

The bells and circles on the waves,
From leaping of the trout,
The salmon from their holes and caves
Come gliding in and out.

O sure it were a seemly thing,
While all is still, and calm,

The praise of God to pray, and sing,
With trumpet, and with shawm.

All labourers draw home at even,
And can to other say,

"Thanks to the gracious God of Heaven,
Who sent this summer's day."

A. Hume

[A Scotch poet of the middle of the sixteenth century.]

CCXVI

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT

SHRINE

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ;
My temple, Lord, that arch of Thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlit waves,
When murm'ring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,

Ev'n more than music, breathes of Thee.

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