Then sudden stillness; over all The rustling leaves the raindrops fall; Darkness, with thunder pealing loud; The golden light behind the cloud; The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays, Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise-- Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vain Cast her sweet spell in hours of pain, Exalting souls to high desire, Apollon of the Golden Lyre. [Illustration: text decoration] IN MEMORIAM. BISHOP WEBBER. In dreams he saw that stately pile appear In matchless beauty of proportion clear On rocky eminence, the city ’neath its feet And winding river, and the vision sweet Which his soul cherished was not all in vain. Behold the vast Cathedral with its lofty fane! For which he toiled and prayed, but Heaven decreed He should not see fruition of the seed. And now within those hallowed walls at rest He lies with meek hands folded o’er his breast Beneath the altar fair he is assigned A fitting resting place for his great mind. Though he be dead, his works will follow him And stones shall speak in that great minster dim, Of strength and majesty so truly wrought-- A temple beautiful for heavenly thought; Each arch in its magnificence alone Reveals a poem writ with pen of stone. Perchance when the sweet sound of vesper bell And trembling notes of the grand organ swell, Reverberating, or with cadence soft and clear, His listening spirit may be hovering near. When holy chant floats down that stately aisle And angel voice of choristers beguile The soul in rapturous awe from mundane things Will soar aloft on Adoration’s wings! And may each human pillar moulded be By master minds of eloquence and oratory; And down the centuries the founder’s name shall shine With his successors in God’s House Divine, While “Glorio in Excelsis Deo” rise In grandest anthem to the lofty skies. AT EVENTIDE. With trembling limbs and side by side Two old folks walk at eventide, Two dear old wrinkled faces bow, Two pairs of feet are weary now, At eventide. Hush! Now they reach the old house door, Where, more than fifty years before, The bride came on her wedding morn, And true love waited for his dawn, Ere eventide. They gaze with tender age-dimmed eyes Around the hearth while memories Surge backward down the vanished years, Fraught with their sweetness, blent with tears, This eventide. They talk of loved ones long since gone, And one whom they in silence mourn, The erring one, and thus they stay With bended heads for him to pray, At eventide. And he, with sudden, deep remorse Resolves to change his evil course, And plead forgiveness ere too late, So softly opes the old green gate, One eventide.