E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks, Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, Where in a greater current they conjoin: So I my Best-Belovèd's am; so He is mine. E'en so we met; and after long pursuit, E'en so we joined; we both became entire; No need for either to renew a suit, For I was flax and he was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine: So I my Best-Belovèd's am; so He is mine. If all those glittering Monarchs that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball, Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all: Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: The world's but theirs; but my Belovèd's mine. FRANCIS QUARLES. * * * * * THE MYSTIC'S VISION Ah! I shall kill myself with dreams! These dreams that softly lap me round Through trance-like hours in which meseems That I am swallowed up and drowned; Drowned in your love, which flows o'er me As o'er the seaweed flows the sea. In watches of the middle night, 'Twixt vesper and 'twist matin bell, With rigid arms and straining sight, I wait within my narrow cell; With muttered prayers, suspended will, I wait your advent--statue-still. Across the convent garden walls The wind blows from the silver seas; Black shadow of the cypress falls Between the moon-meshed olive-trees; Sleep-walking from their golden bowers, Flit disembodied orange flowers. And in God's consecrated house, All motionless from head to feet, My heart awaits her heavenly Spouse, As white I lie on my white sheet; With body lulled and soul awake, I watch in anguish for your sake. And suddenly, across the gloom, The naked moonlight sharply swings; A Presence stirs within the room, A breath of flowers and hovering wings:-- Your presence without form and void, Beyond all earthly joys enjoyed. My heart is hushed, my tongue is mute, My life is centred in your will; You play upon me like a lute Which answers to its master's skill, Till passionately vibrating, Each nerve becomes a throbbing string. Oh, incommunicably sweet! No longer aching and apart, As rain upon the tender wheat, You pour upon my thirsty heart; As scent is bound up in the rose, Your love within my bosom glows. MATHILDE BLIND. * * * * * THE CALL. Come, my way, my truth, my life-- Such a way as gives us breath; Such a truth as ends all strife; Such a life as killeth death. Come my light, my feast, my strength-- Such a light as shows a feast; Such a feast as mends in length; Such a strength as makes His guest.