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groaned aloud,

And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!"

"Alas!" the voice returned, "'t is thou art blind,

Not I unmerciful; I can forgive,
But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes;
Only the soul hath power o'er itself
With that again there murmured
"Nevermore!"

And Rhocus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves,

Like the long surf upon a distant shore, Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down.

The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain

The city sparkled with its thousand lights,

And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze:

Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth.

THE FALCON.

I KNOW a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine:

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We strove, and he was stronger, And I have never wept.

Let him possess thy body,

Thy soul is still with me, More sunny and more gladsome Than it was wont to be: Thy body was a fetter

That bound me to the flesh, Thank God that it is broken, And now I live afresh !

Now I can see thee clearly;
The dusky cloud of clay,
That hid thy starry spirit,

Is rent and blown away:
To earth I give thy body,
Thy spirit to the sky,

I saw its bright wings growing, And knew that thou must fly.

Now I can love thee truly,

For nothing comes between The senses and the spirit, The seen and the unseen; Lifts the eternal shadow,

The silence bursts apart, And the soul's boundless future Is present in my heart.

A PARABLE.

WORN and footsore was the Prophet, When he gained the holy hill; "God has left the earth," he murmured, "Here his presence lingers still.

"God of all the olden prophets, Wilt thou speak with men no more? Have I not as truly served thee

As thy chosen ones of yore?

"Hear me. guider of my fathers, Lo a humble heart is mine; By thy mercy I beseech thee

Grant thy servant but a sign!"

Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer;
No loud burst of thunder followed,

Not a murmur stirred the air :

But the tuft of moss before him
Opened while he waited yet,
And, from out the rock's hard bosom,
Sprang a tender violet.

"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet;

"Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy.

"Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime; Humbleness, and love, and patience, Still give empire over time.

"Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things, Thou thyself wouldst then have sought

me,

And set free my spirit's wings.

"But I looked for signs and wonders,
That o'er men should give me sway;
Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay.

"Ere I entered on my journey,
As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,
The beloved of my heart;

"In her hand she held a flower,
Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
She had plucked and brought to me."
1842.

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The momentary work of unseen hands, Which crumbles down behind us; looking back,

We see the other shore, the gulf be

tween,

And, marvelling how we won to where we stand,

Content ourselves to call the builder Chance,

We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth

Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb,

Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found

At last a spirit meet to be the womb From which it might be born to bless mankind,

Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years,

and waiting but one ray of sunlight

more

To blossom fully.

But whence came that ray? We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought Rather to name our high successes so. Only the instincts of great soulsare Fate, And have predestined sway: all other things,

Except by leave of us, could never be. For Destiny is but the breath of God Still moving in us, the last fragment left Of our unfallen nature, waking oft Within our thought, to beckon us beyond

The narrow circle of the seen and known,

And always tending to a noble end, As all things must that overrule the soul,

And for a space unseat the helmsman,

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Not such as trickles down, a slender stream,

In the shrunk channel of a great descent, But such as lies entowered in heart and head,

And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of both.

His was a brow where gold were out of place,

And yet it seemed right worthy of a

crown

(Though he despised such), were it only made

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