THE MYSTIC THOUGHT.
When will come rest? Is it alone the silent grave
That can bring true peace to the restless soul
That striving, yearns to reach some distant goal,
Toss’d like a boat on the crest of a mighty wave?
Is there oblivion in the cold, dark tomb
To dull the heart and kill the abject fear
Which loads the sense, when unknown dangers loom
From regions that our sense perceives not here?
When from the soul goes forth the mystic thought
That we have higher purpose than we know,
And each must reap the fruit he cares to sow,
Or learn the duties he himself has taught:
Can this be killed?—no, surely!—but that lamp can save
That burns within us here—and burns beyond the grave.
P. H. Dalbiac.