Although it were a grateful thing To drain the cup his heralds bring, And yield them to his ransoming; To quaff the calm, Lethean wave,— In passionless tenure of the grave Forgetting all they could not save. What angels hold them up, among The ruins of their lives, so long? What visions make their spirits strong? In sackcloth, at the outer gate, They chant the burden of their fate, Yet are not wholly desolate. A blessed ray from darkness won It may be, even, to know the sun Hath distant lands he shines upon; It may be that they deem it vile For one to mount his funeral pile, Because the heavens cease to smile; That scorn of cowardice holds fast, Lighting the forehead to the last, Though all of bravery’s hopes are past. Perchance the sequence of an art Leads to a refuge for the heart,— A sanctuary far apart. It may be that, in dearest eyes, They see the light of azure skies, And keep their faith in Paradise. Thou, who dost feel Life’s vessel strand Full-length upon the shifting sand, And hearest breakers close at hand, Be strong and wait! nor let the strife, With which the winds and waves are rife, Disturb that sacred inner life. Anon thou shalt regain the shore, And walk—though naked, maimed, and sore— A nobler being than before! No lesser griefs shall work thee ill; No malice shall have power to kill: Of woe thy soul has drunk its fill. Tempests, that beat us to the clay, Drive many a lowering cloud away, And bring a clearer, holier day. The fire, that every hope consumes, Either the inmost soul entombs Or evermore the face illumes! Robes of asbestos do we wear; Before the memories we bear, The flames leap backward everywhere. THE PROTEST OF FAITH. TO REV. ⸺ ⸺ Dear Friend and Teacher,—not by word alone, But by the plenteous virtues shining out Along the zodiac of a good man’s life; Dear gentle friend! from one so loved as you,— Because so loving, and so finely apt In tender ministry to a little flock, With whom you joy and suffer ... and, withal, So constant to the spirit of our time That I must hold you of a different sort From those dry lichens on the altar steps, Those mutes in surplices, school-trained to sink The ashes of their own experience So low, in doctrinal catacombs, that none Find token they can love and mourn like us,— From such an one as you, I cannot brook What from these mummies were a pleasant draught Of bitter hyssop—pleasant unto me, Drunk from a chalice worthier men have held And emptied to the lees.