Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee,
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound;
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
Her cabin’d ample spirit,
It flutter’d and fail’d for breath;
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.
AT THE CHURCH GATE.
BY W. M. THACKERAY.
William Makepeace Thackeray was horn at Calcutta in 1811. He was brought up in England, where he went to Charterhouse School and later to Trinity College, Cambridge. He left college after one year’s study and went to Paris, where he studied with the hope of becoming an artist. His first contributions in the way of writing were to Frazer’s Magazine, and among them were his famous “Yellowplush Papers.” He wrote other satires and humorous ballads for Punch. Thackeray was the first editor of the Cornhill Magazine, which is still in publication. He died in London in 1863.
Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes—she’s here, she’s past!
May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait,
And see, through heaven’s gate,
Angels within it.