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ANNIVERSARY POEM.
XL.Comes not the hour? quake not the rock-based hills? Falls not grief's darkness over sea and plain? Are not the veils of temples rent in twain?Have not the Dead grown quick with throes and thrills Of actual life?—appearing, saintly pale, Through faint aureola and shimmering veil,While Sin his own death-measure over-fills?
XLI.For us, who now all mournful thought forbear, Weak, "Nameless," we are children ne'ertheless Of Him, who ever waits in heaven to blessWith kind "Well done!" our sad laborious care. There shall our lives, that find rough channels here, Flow smoothly on, nor beat the shores of Fear;And all their hours be sweet and debonair.
XLII.Thus when our souls, ascending, seek the sun, Each from new heights of social joy shall turn,
