Not from the things around us do we draw Thy light within; within the light is born; The growing rays of some forgotten morn, And added canons of eternal law. The painter’s picture, the rapt poet’s song, The sculptor’s statue, never saw the Day; Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay, Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong; Hue after hue divinest pictures grow, Line after line immortal songs arise, And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow, The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes! And in the master’s mind Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind, That echoes through a range of ocean caves, And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves! The mystery is thine, For thine the more mysterious human heart, The temple of all wisdom, Beauty’s shrine, The oracle of Art! Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath; Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth? Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,―― But all the keys of Death; And all the worlds, with all that they contain Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone; The universe is girdled with a chain, And hung below the throne Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless,―― Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness! * * * * * A DIRGE. A FEW frail summers had touched thee, As they touch the fruit; Not so bright as thy hair the sunshine, Not so sweet as thy voice the lute. Hushed the voice, shorn the hair, all is over: An urn of white ashes remains; Nothing else save the tears in our eyes, And our bitterest, bitterest pains! We garland the urn with white roses, Burn incense and gums on the shrine, Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, Dear tunes that were thine! But in vain, all in vain; Thou art gone――we remain! * * * * * THE SHADOW OF THE HAND. YOU were very charming, Madam, In your silks and satins fine; And you made your lovers drunken, But it was not with your wine! There were court gallants in dozens, There were princes of the land, And they would have perished for you As they knelt and kissed your hand―― _For they saw no stain upon it,_ _It was such a snowy hand!_ But for me――I knew you better, And, while you were flaunting there, I remembered some one lying, With the blood on his white hair! He was pleading for you, Madam, Where the shriven spirits stand; But the Book of Life was darkened, By the Shadow of a Hand! _It was tracing your perdition,_ _For the blood upon your hand!_ * * * * *