SELECT POETRY.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 6, Issue 324, 16 November 1865, Page 1

SELECT POETRY.

BEQtTIBSCAT IN FACS. We have watchedfim. to the last ; ' Vf e have seen the dreaded king Smile pacific as he passed i” From his couch of suffering;; . Wrinkles of aggressive years, ; Channels of unwitnessed tears,' Furrows on that anxious brow. ■ ■ All are smooth as childhood’s now t Death,.as seen hy men in dreams, Something stem and .cruel seems— But his face is not the same, '■ > ■ - When ho comes into the room, , : lakes tile hand and names the name, Beals the eyes with tender gloom, Baying “ Blessed are the laws ; ; To which all God’s creatures band: Mortal! Fear me.not, because Thine inevitable friend!" Best Is happy, rest is right, < ; ' 1 Best Is precious in God’s sight. But if he who lies below, Out of an abundant heart Drawing remedies for wo, • Never wearied to impart Blessings to his fellow men; . If. he never rested then, > But each harvest gathered seed For .the future word and deed. And the darkness of his kind Filled him with such endless ruth. That the very love of truth Fained him, walking ’mid the blind,— • How, when some transcendent change Gave his being boundless range. When he knows not time nor space In the nearness of God’s face. In the world of spirits how Can that soul be resting now? While one creature is unblest. Bow can such as he have rest ? Best i« happy, rest is meet. For well-worn and weary feet: Surely not for him. on whom Fondrous stands the pompous tomb. Prompt to blind tho future’s eyes ’ With gilt deceit and blazoned lies: He, who never used his powers To speed for good the waiting hours,— Hade none wiser for his seeing. Hade none better for bis being— Closed Uis eyes, lest others’ woe* Should disturb his base repose— Catching at each selfish zest; How can he have right to rest? Bather would we deem him driven Anywhere in search of Heaven, Failing ever in the quest. Till he knows it is not given That man should hy himself he blest. • • * • • <9 Here we struggle with the light And, when comes the fated night. Into Nature’s lap we fall, Like tired children, one and all. Day and labor. Night and rest. Come together in our miud. And we image forth the Blest To eternal calm resigned: Tet It may be that the abyss Of the Lost is only this— That for them ail things to coma Are inanimate and dumb. And Immortal life they steep In dishonorable sleep: While no power of pause is given To the inheritance of Heaven; And the holiest still are those Who are furthest from repose. And yet onward, onward pres* To a loftier godliness; Still becoming, more than being, Apprehending, more than seeing. Feeling, as from orb to orb In tbeir awful course they ran, How tbeir souls new light absorb From the Self-Existing One, Demolurgos, throned above. Hind of mind, au d Love of Love. —Macmillan’s Magazine.