Blinded I groped--you gave me sight. Perplexed I turned--you sent me light. You speak unto a thousand ears: I pay you tribute in hid tears. I pay you homage in the hopes That rise to scale life's scathèd slopes. I give you gratitude in this: That, midway on the precipice You never trod and never saw, Where air you never drank, strikes raw And wan upon the wasted breath, And gulfs you never passed, gape death, And crags you gained some sunlit way Frown threatening over me to-day,-- That here with bruisèd hand I cling, Because I heard you yonder sing With those who conquer. If through joy, Then deeper be our shame who toy And loiter in the scourging rain, And did not pass by strength of pain. Laggard below, I reach to bless You who are King of happiness; You are the victor, you the brave, Who could not stoop to be _her_ slave. Downward to me, rebuking, fling My privilege of suffering. I take and listen. Teach me. See! Nearer than you, I ought to be; Nearer the height man never trod, Nearer the veiled face of God. I ought, and am not. Comrade! be Unconscious captain unto me. Unknowing, beckon and command: I answer you with unseen hand. You read in vain these lines between, And smiling, wonder whom I mean. TO O. W. H. AUGUST 29, 1879. I had no song so wise and sweet, As birthday songs, dear friend, should be. Silent, among a hundred guests, I only prayed for thee. Such wishes held the speaking lip, Such mood of blessing took me, there, That music, like a bird to heaven, Flew, and was lost in prayer. WHOSE SHALL THE WELCOME BE? H. W. L. The wave goes down, the wind goes down, The gray tide glitters on the sea, The moon seems praying in the sky. Gates of the New Jerusalem (A perfect pearl each gate of them) Wide as all heaven swing on high; Whose shall the welcome be? The wave went down, the wind went down, The tide of life turned out to sea; Patience of pain and grace of deed, The glories of the heart and brain, Treasure that shall not come again; The human singing that we need, Set to a heavenly key. The wave goes down, the wind goes down, All tides at last turn to the sea. We learn to take the thing we have. Thou who hast taught us strength in grief, As moon to shadow, high and chief, Shine out, white soul, beyond the grave, And light our loss of thee! EXEAT. To the hope that he has taught, To the beauty he has wrought, To the comfort he has been; To the dream that poets tell, To the land where Gabriel Can not lose Evangeline;-- Hush! let him go. GEORGE ELIOT.[1]