Part 4 (2/2)

Whence come they but from him who sows With harder hand, and reaps, the soil; The merit of his labouring brows, The guerdon of his manly toil?

From Him the Grace: through her it stands Adjusted, meted, and applied; And ever, pa.s.sing through her hands, Enriched it seems, and beautified.

Love's mirror doubles Love's caress: Love's echo to Love's voice is true:-- Their Sire the children love not less Because they clasp a Mother too.

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XX.

When April's sudden sunset cold Through boughs half-clothed with watery sheen Bursts on the high, new-cowslipped wold, And bathes a world half gold half green,

Then shakes the illuminated air With din of birds; the vales far down Grow phosph.o.r.escent here and there; Forth flash the turrets of the town;

Along the sky thin vapours scud; Bright zephyrs curl the choral main; The wild ebullience of the blood Rings joy-bells in the heart and brain:

Yet in that music discords mix; The unbalanced lights like meteors play; And, tired of splendours that perplex, The dazzled spirit sighs for May.

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XXI.

As children when, with heavy tread, Men sad of face, unseen before, Have borne away their mother dead-- So stand the nations thine no more.

From room to room those children roam, Heart-stricken by the unwonted black: Their house no longer seems their home: They search; yet know not what they lack.

Years pa.s.s: Self-Will and Pa.s.sion strike Their roots more deeply day by day; Old servants weep; and ”how unlike”

Is all the tender neighbours say.

And yet at moments, like a dream, A mother's image o'er them flits: Like her's their eyes a moment beam; The voice grows soft; the brow unknits.

Such, Mary, are the realms once thine, That know no more thy golden reign.

Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine!

O make thine orphans thine again!

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