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A VISION OF POETS.
"From marshalled, angels, must shut down
Their lids, first, upon sun and moon,
The head asleep upon a stone,—

"If One who did redeem you hack,
By His own lack, from final lack,
Did consecrate by touch and track

"Those temporal sorrows, till the taste
Of brackish waters of the waste
Is salt with tears He dropt too fast,—

"If all the crowns of earth must wound
With prickings of the thorns He found,—
If saddest sighs swell sweetest sound,—

"What say ye unto this?—refuse
This baptism in salt water?—choose
Calm breasts, mute lips, and labour loose?

"Or, oh ye gifted givers! ye
Who give your liberal hearts to me,
To make the world this harmony,—

"Are ye resigned that they he spent
To such world's help? "—The Spirits bent
Their awful brows and said—"Content!"

Content! it sounded like Amen,
Said by a choir of mourning men—
An affirmation full of pain

And patience!—ay, of glorying,
And adoration,—as a king
Might seal an oath for governing.

Then said the angel—and his face
Lightened abroad until the place
Grew larger for a moment's space—