Go, sun, since go you must,
The dusky evening lowers above our sky,
Our sky which was so blue and sweetly fair;
Night is not terrible that we should sigh.
A little darkness we can surely bear;
Will there not be more sunshine--by and by?

Go, rose, since go you must,
Flowerless and chill the winter draweth nigh;
Closed are the blithe and fragrant lips which made
All summer long perpetual melody.
Cheerless we take our way, but not afraid:
Will there not be more roses--by and by?

Go, love, since go you must,
Out of our pain we bless you as you fly;
The momentary heaven the rainbow lit
Was worth whole days of black and stormy sky;
Shall we not see, as by the waves we sit,
Your bright sail winging shoreward--by and by?

Go, life, since go ...

    Across the waste, across the snow,
        O the pity!    O the pity!
    Past sentinel of friend and foe
        O the pity!    O the pity!
    Comes the Christ-Child clad in white
    Through the storm-clouds of the night.
    Bearing in His lily hands
    Gift of peace to warring lands,
        O the pity!    O the pity!

    "Adeste fideles!" sing the choirs
        O the pity!    O the pity!
    Lurid flame the battle fires
        O the pity!    O the pity!
    Shepherds hear the heavenly song,
    Mid the strife and piteous wrong;
    Peace on earth but not of men,
    Peace that knows not crime nor sin.
        O the pity!    O the pity!

    Lay your sceptres at His feet,
        O the pity!    O the pity!
    ...

A sentinel angel sitting high in glory
Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I loved, - and, blind with passionate love, I fell.
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell.
For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against His high decree,
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;
But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! let me see my love again
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain
To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent
That wild vow!    Look, the dial-finger's bent
Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!
I cannot rise to peace and leave h...

I.

Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found,
But so confused, that neither any eye
Can count them just, nor Reason reason try,
What force brought them to so unlikely ground.

To stranger weights my mind's waste soil is bound,
Of passion-hills, reaching to Reason's sky,
From Fancy's earth, passing all number's bound,
Passing all guess, whence into me should fly
So mazed a mass; or, if in me it grows,
A simple soul should breed so mixed woes.

II.

The Bruertons have a lake, which, when the sun
Approaching warms, not else, dead logs up sends
From hideous depth; which tribute, when it ends,
Sore sign it is the lord's last thread is spun.

My lake is Sense, whose still streams never run
But when my sun her shining twins ther...

God hears us when we pray, but yet defers
His gifts, to exercise petitioners;
And though a while He makes requesters stay,
With princely hand He'll recompense delay.

[The reader has been made acquainted with the circumstances under which this poem was written. It was included by Mr. J. H. Dixon in his "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England" (edited by Robert Bell), with the following prefatory note:--

"The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century, and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times."

Montgomery's criticism on publishing it in the "Sheffield Iris" was as follows:--

"Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of conde...

O Thou Eternal One, look down
Upon an erring child of earth;
Thy handiwork with knowledge crown,
Or life will seem of little worth;
By Thine own light illume my way,
And turn this darkness into day.

I hear a whisper in my heart--
"Than knowledge, better far is love;
Thy knowledge here is but in part,
The perfect waits for Thee above:
Walk now by faith, and leave to me
The things now wrap'd in mystery."

Weighed down with mysteries profound
I lean upon Thy loving breast;
The great unknown still girts me round,
But Thou art mine, and here I rest;
Unsolved the mysteries remain;
But they no longer give me pain.

My finite mind may never grasp
The thought of Thy immensity;
But I Thy hand more firmly clasp--
To feel Thee near...

The cross, if rightly borne, shall be
No burden, but support to thee;"
So, moved of old time for our sake,
The holy monk of Kempen spake.

Thou brave and true one! upon whom
Was laid the cross of martyrdom,
How didst thou, in thy generous youth,
Bear witness to this blessed truth!

Thy cross of suffering and of shame
A staff within thy hands became,
In paths where faith alone could see
The Master's steps supporting thee.

Thine was the seed-time; God alone
Beholds the end of what is sown;
Beyond our vision, weak and dim,
The harvest-time is hid with Him.

Yet, unforgotten where it lies,
That seed of generous sacrifice,
Though seeming on the desert cast,
Shall rise with bloom and fruit at last

Shepherd of Israel! o'er Thy fold
How sweet Thy guardian care,
To them invisible indeed,
Yet present everywhere.

Thy crook still points to "pastures green,"
When rugged paths they see,
Beside "still waters" bids them rest,
And cast their care on Thee.

The "stranger's voice" thou, Lord, canst teach
Their watchful ears to know,
And make their "peace," their heavenly peace,
Like boundless waters flow.

When round this thorny world we stray
And find no place of rest,
Then come like "doves unto the ark,"
Faint, wearied, and oppressed,

Thy gentle hand is soon put forth
Each wanderer to receive;
Thou bindest up the broken heart,
And bidd'st the sinner live.

Why should we fear the storms of time?
Thy word their for...

Still in thy streets, O Paris! doth the stain
Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;
Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,
And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew,
When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread,
At a crowned murderer's beck of license, fed
The yawning trenches with her noble dead;
Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls
The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,
And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side,
The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;
Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow
Melts round the cornfields and the vines below,
The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball,
Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall;
On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain,
And Sutlej paints with blood its banks ag...

"What means this throng?" a blind man said,
Whilst begging by the highway side;
Begging and blind, and lacking bread,
His ears discern the living tide.
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by,"
Was answered. Had he heard aright?
Oh, was the heavenly healer nigh,
He who could give the blind their sight?
"Jesus, have mercy!" lo, he cried,
"Oh, son of David, pity me!"
And when the jeering crowd deride,
His accents form a clearer plea.
Jesus stood still. A kindly voice
Bade him good cheer "He calleth thee."
Thus must his lonely heart rejoice,
"He thinks of me; yes, even me!"
Bartimæus found the Living Light
Who asked and granted his request.
His blinded eyes received their sight;
With joy he followed with the rest.
How oft when Jesus passes by,
The ...

Ah, when this world and I have shaken hands,
And all the frowns of this sad life got through,
When from pale Care and Sorrow's dismal lands
I turn a welcome and a wish'd adieu;
How blest and happy, to eternal day,
To endless happiness without a pain,
Will my poor weary spirit sail away,
That long long look'd for "better place" to gain:
How sweet the scenes will open on her eye,
Where no more troubles, no more cares annoy;
All the sharp troubles of this life torn by,
And safely moor'd in heaven's eternal joy:
Sweet will it seem to Fate's oppressed worm,
As trembling Sunbeams creeping from the storm.

When men exert their utmost pow'rs,
To while away the tedious hours,
With soothing Flatt'ry's art,
When ev'ry art and work well skill'd,
And ev'ry look with poison fill'd,
Assail a woman's heart,

Tho' ardently she'd wish to be
Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery,
The task is hard, I ween;
Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true,
Who can there be more fair than you?
Who more admir'd, when seen?"

Then take this tempting gift of thine,
Nor e'er again wish me to shine
In any borrow'd bloom:
Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm;
Full well I know they both will harm;
Truth is my only plume.

Back to where the roses rest
Round a shrine of holy name,
(Yes -- they knew me when I came)
More of peace and less of fame
Suit my restless heart the best.

Back to where long quiets brood,
Where the calm is never stirred
By the harshness of a word,
But instead the singing bird
Sweetens all my solitude.

With the birds and with the flowers
Songs and silences unite,
From the morning unto night;
And somehow a clearer light
Shines along the quiet hours.

God comes closer to me here --
Back of ev'ry rose leaf there
He is hiding -- and the air
Thrills with calls to holy prayer;
Earth grows far, and heaven near.

Every single flower is fraught
With the very sweetest dreams,
Under clouds or under gleams
Changeful...

When tossed on time's tempestuous tide,
    By angry storms resistless driven,
One hope can bid our fears subside -
    It is the hope of rest in Heaven.

With trusting heart we lift our eyes
    Above the dark clouds, tempest-driven,
And view, beyond those troubled skies,
    The peaceful, stormless rest of Heaven.

No more to shed the exile's tears, -
    No more the heart by anguish riven, -
No longer bent 'neath toilful years, -
    How sweet will be the rest of Heaven

All things give token of thee!
As soon as the bright sun is shining,
Thou too wilt follow, I trust.

When in the garden thou walk'st,
Thou then art the rose of all roses,
Lily of lilies as well.

When thou dost move in the dance,
Then each constellation moves also;
With thee and round thee they move.

Night! oh, what bliss were the night!
For then thou o'ershadow'st the lustre,
Dazzling and fair, of the moon.

Dazzling and beauteous art thou,
And flowers, and moon, and the planets
Homage pay, Sun, but to thee.

Sun! to me also be thou
Creator of days bright and glorious;
Life and Eternity this!

That woman, did she try to attract my attention?
Is it true I saw her smile and nod?
She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me?
It is better to think of work or god.
The clouds pile coldly above the houses
Slow wind revolves the leaves:
It begins to rain, and the first long drops
Are slantingly blown from eaves.
But it is true she tried to attract my attention!
She pressed a rose to her chin and smiled.
Her hand was white by the richness of her hair,
Her eyes were those of a child.
It is true she looked at me as if she liked me.
And turned away, afraid to look too long!
She watched me out of the corners of her eyes;
And, tapping time with fingers, hummed a song.
. . . Nevertheless, I will think of work,
With a trowel in my hands;
Or the vagu...

Far in the east the rain-clouds sweep and harry,
Down the long haggard hills, formless and low,
Far in the west the shell-tints meet and marry,
Piled gray and tender blue and roseate snow;
East - like a fiend, the bolt-breasted, streaming
Storm strikes the world with lightning and with hail;
West - like the thought of a seraph that is dreaming,
Venus leads the young moon down the vale.

Through the lake furrow between the gloom and bright'ning
Firm runs our long canoe with a whistling rush,
While Potàn the wise and the cunning Silver Lightning
Break with their slender blades the long clear hush;
Soon shall I pitch my tent amid the birches,
Wise Potàn shall gather boughs of balsam fir,
While for bark and dry wood Silver Lightning searches;
Soon the smoke shall ...