If now our weary travail is no more! If this sweet haven be our destined rest, Then naught remains but to be blest, To thank our God for all his gifts, Who from our eyes the veil uplifts, Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore, [_The fourth sings to the viol_.] Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore! O blindness, dearer far than others' sight! O sweeter grief than earth's most sweet delight! For ye have led the erring soul By gradual steps to this fair goal, And through the darkness into light we soar. [_The fifth sings to a Spanish timbrel_.] And through the darkness into light we soar! To full fruition all high thought is brought, With such brave patience that ev'n we At least the only path can see, And in his noblest work our God adore. [_The sixth sings to a lute_.] And in his noblest work our God adore! God doth not will joy should to joy succeed, Nor ill shall be of other ill the seed; But in his hand the wheel of fate Turns, now depressed and now elate, Evolving day from night for evermore. [_The seventh sings to the Irish harp_.] Evolving day from night for evermore! And as yon robe of glorious nightly fire Pales when the morning beams to noon aspire, Thus He who rules with law eternal, Creating order fair diurnal, Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor. [_The eighth plays with a viol and bow_.] Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor! And with an equal hand maintains The boundless worlds which He sustains, And scatters all our finite sense At thought of His omnipotence, Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more. [_The ninth plays upon the rebeck_.] Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more! Thus neither doubt nor fear avails; O'er all the incomparable End prevails, O'er fair champaign and mountain, O'er river-brink and fountain, And o'er the shocks of seas and perils of the shore. Translation of Isa Blagden. OF IMMENSITY From Frith's 'Life of Giordano Bruno' 'Tis thou, O Spirit, dost within my soul This weakly thought with thine own life amend; Rejoicing, dost thy rapid pinions lend Me, and dost wing me to that lofty goal Where secret portals ope and fetters break, And thou dost grant me, by thy grace complete, Fortune to spurn, and death; O high retreat, Which few attain, and fewer yet forsake! Girdled with gates of brass in every part, Prisoned and bound in vain, 'tis mine to rise Through sparkling fields of air to pierce the skies, Sped and accoutred by no doubting heart, Till, raised on clouds of contemplation vast, Light, leader, law, Creator, I attain at last. LIFE WELL LOST