And in diffusion ever more intense! So shall I join the choir invisible, Whose music is the gladness of the world. MARIAN EVANS LEWES CROSS (_George Eliot_). * * * * * O YET WE TRUST THAT SOMEHOW GOOD. FROM "IN MEMORIAM," LIII. O yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain. Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last--far off--at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. * * * * * DAY BREAKS. What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower. Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour? Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand, If the bright morning dawns upon the land. "The stars are clear above me; scarcely one Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun; But I yet see on the horizon's verge Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge." Look forth again, O watcher on the tower,-- The people wake and languish for the hour; Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine For the full daylight that they know must shine. "I see not well,--the moon is cloudy still,-- There is a radiance on the distant hill; Even as I watch the glory seems to grow; But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow." And is that all, O watcher on the tower? Look forth again; it must be near the hour; Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes, And the green woods beneath them on the slopes? "A mist envelops them; I cannot trace Their outline; but the day comes on apace: The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes, And all the stars grow dim; the morning breaks." We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower: But look again, and tell us, hour by hour, All thou beholdest: many of us die Ere the day comes; oh, give them a reply! "I see the hill-tops now, and chanticleer Crows his prophetic carol on mine ear; I see the distant woods and fields of corn, And ocean gleaming in the light of morn." Again, again, O watcher on the tower! We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour, Patient, but longing. Tell us, shall it be A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free? "I hope, but cannot tell; I hear a song, Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong, As of a lark--young prophet of the noon-- Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune."