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OW many lives, made beautiful and sweet

By self-devotion and by self-restraint,

Whose pleasure is to run without complaint

On unknown errands of the Paraclete,

Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,

Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint

Around the shining forehead of the saint,

And are in their completeness incomplete !

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,

The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,

A vision, a delight, and a desire,

The builder's perfect and centennial flower,

That in the night of ages bloomed alone,

But wanting still the glory of the spire.



"IS late at night, and in the realm of sleep

My little lambs are folded like the flocks ;

From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks

Challenge the passing hour, like guards that


Their solitary watch on tower and steep ;

Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,

And through the opening door that time un


Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.

To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,

Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,

And tremble to be happy with the rest."

And I make answer :


am satisfied ;

I dare not ask ; I know not what is best ;

God hath already said what shall betide.”


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