This is the answering cry that goes for ever
To Heaven from blest contented souls:
But the calm Voice makes answer to them never;
The undelaying chariot onward rolls.
LOOK OUT, O LOVE.
Look out, O Love, across the sea:
A soft breeze fans the summer night,
The low waves murmur lovingly,
And lo! the fitful beacon's light.
Some day perchance, when I am gone,
And muse by far-off tropic seas,
You may be gazing here alone,
On starlit waves and skies like these.
Or perhaps together, you and I,
Alone, enwrapt, no others by,
Shall watch again that fitful flame,
And know that we are not the same.
Or maybe we shall come no more,
But from some unreturning shore,
In dreams shall see that light again,
And hear that starlit sea complain.
SAINT CHRISTOPHER.
Christopher! There is many a name of Time
Higher than this in pride and empery;
There is a name which like a diadem
Sits on the imperial front, so that men still
Bow down to Cæsar;—deathless names enough
Of bard and sage, soldier and king, which seize
Our thought, and in one moment bear us forth
Across the immemorial centuries
To Time's first dawns—a bright band set on high,
Who watch the surging of the restless sea
Whose waves are generations. Yet not one
More strange and quaint and sweet than Christopher's,
Who bare the Christ.