XII.

O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath We name our souls, self-spoilt!--by that strong passion Which paled Thee once with sighs, by that strong death Which made Thee once unbreathing--from the wrack Themselves have called around them, call them back, Back to Thee in continuous aspiration! For here, O Lord, For here they travel vainly, vainly pass From city-pavement to untrodden sward Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass Cold with the earth's last dew. Yea, very vain The greatest speed of all these souls of men Unless they travel upward to the throne Where sittest THOU the satisfying ONE, With help for sins and holy perfectings For all requirements: while the archangel, raising Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing, Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings.

_TO BETTINE,_

THE CHILD-FRIEND OF GOETHE.

"I have the second sight, Goethe!"--_Letters of a Child._

Bettine, friend of Goethe, _Hadst_ thou the second sight-- Upturning worship and delight With such a loving duty To his grand face, as women will, The childhood 'neath thine eyelids still?