Thou dreamest the word shall return, shot arrow-like into the air, The wound in the breast where it lodged be balmed and closed for thy prayer, The ear of the dead be unsealed, till thou whisper a boon once denied, The white hour of life be restored, that passed thee unprized, undescried!— Thy prayers are as runners that faint, that fail, within sight of the goal, For this, that thou prayest fond things, ’tis a far cry to Heaven, my soul,— Oh, a far cry to Heaven! And cravest thou fondly the quivering sands shall be firm to thy feet, The brackish pool of the waste to thy lips be made wholesome and sweet? And cravest thou subtly the bane thou desirest, be wrought to thy good, As forth from a poisonous flower a bee conveyeth safe food? For this, that thou prayest ill things, thy prayers are an anger-rent scroll; The chamber of audit is closed,—’tis a far cry to Heaven, my soul,— Oh, a far cry to Heaven! For the strong, but aloe-tinctured draught of this poem, “Sursum Corda” is the antidote. Here we have the same experience that went to the making of the former poem, and touched it with bitterness, turned to sweetness and a fervor of exaltation, when viewed from the hour of illumination at the last. It is throughout a valiant, noble song, of which the following lines show the spirit: Up and rejoice, and know thou hast matter for revel, my heart! Up and rejoice, not heeding if drawn or undrawn be the dart Last winged by the Archer whose quiver is full for sweeter than thou, That yet will sing out of the dust when the ultimate arrow shall bow. * * * * * Now thou couldst bless and God-speed, without bitterness bred in thine heart, Loves, that, outworn and time-wasted, were fain from thy lodge to depart: Though dulled by their passing, thy faith, like a flower upfolded by night, New kindness should quicken again, as a flower feels the touch of new light. Ay, now thou couldst love, undefeated, with ardor instinct from pure Love,— Warmed from a sun in the heavens that knows not beneath nor above, Nor distance its patience to weary, nor substance unpierce by its ray. * * * * * Now couldst thou pity and smile, where once but the scourge thou wouldst lay; Now to thyself couldst show mercy, and up from all penance arise, Knowing there runneth abroad a chastening flame from the skies. Doubt not thou hast matter for revel, for once thou wouldst cage thee in steel, And, wounded, wouldst seek out the balm and the cordial cunning to heal; But now thou hast knowledge more sovran, more kind, than leech-craft can wield: Never Design sent thee forth to be safe from the scath of the field, But bade thee stand bare in the midst, and offer free way to all scath Piercing thee inly—so only might Song have an outgoing path.