And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, Then the blest paths we'll travel, Strewed with rubies thick as gravel,-- Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl; No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser, bought or sold, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the King's Attorney; Who pleads for all without degrees, And he hath angels, but no fees; And when the grand twelve-million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live. Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder! Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,-- Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea', That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon, Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread. Set on my soul an everlasting head: Then am I, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ. Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, Who oft doth think, must needs die well. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. * * * * * THE MASTER'S TOUCH. In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen: To make the music and the beauty, needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand; Let not the music that is in us die! Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let, Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie! Spare not the stroke! do with us as thou wilt! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred; Complete thy purpose, that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord! HORATIUS BONAR. * * * * * THE FAITHFUL ANGEL. FROM "PARADISE LOST," BOOK V. The seraph Abdiel, faithful found Among the faithless, faithful only he; Among innumerable false, unmoved, Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal; Nor number, nor example with him wrought To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind, Though single. From amidst them forth he passed, Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained Superior, nor of violence feared aught; And with retorted scorn his back he turned On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed. MILTON. * * * * * LOW SPIRITS. Fever and fret and aimless stir And disappointed strife, All chafing, unsuccessful things, Make up the sum of life. Love adds anxiety to toil, And sameness doubles cares. While one unbroken chain of work The flagging temper wears.