By E. G. CHARLESWORTH.
Alas! and have I lost thy voice,Lost the sweet face that in my youthShone from my breast on things to be—Hope-making, changing hope to truth,Thy face, sweet love,That madest beautiful the plainest thingBelow, above?No; like the priest in times of old,Who drew the temple’s sacred veil,Thou art gone into an inner fold;And now, thy face turned heaven’s way,A paler face, and yet not pale,Looks for the sunset in the west;Thy form appears with outspread wings,I hear thee from thine altar say,With angel-breath o’er former things,How beautiful is rest!—London Sunday Magazine.
Alas! and have I lost thy voice,Lost the sweet face that in my youthShone from my breast on things to be—Hope-making, changing hope to truth,Thy face, sweet love,That madest beautiful the plainest thingBelow, above?No; like the priest in times of old,Who drew the temple’s sacred veil,Thou art gone into an inner fold;And now, thy face turned heaven’s way,A paler face, and yet not pale,Looks for the sunset in the west;Thy form appears with outspread wings,I hear thee from thine altar say,With angel-breath o’er former things,How beautiful is rest!—London Sunday Magazine.
Alas! and have I lost thy voice,Lost the sweet face that in my youthShone from my breast on things to be—Hope-making, changing hope to truth,Thy face, sweet love,That madest beautiful the plainest thingBelow, above?
Alas! and have I lost thy voice,
Lost the sweet face that in my youth
Shone from my breast on things to be—
Hope-making, changing hope to truth,
Thy face, sweet love,
That madest beautiful the plainest thing
Below, above?
No; like the priest in times of old,Who drew the temple’s sacred veil,Thou art gone into an inner fold;And now, thy face turned heaven’s way,A paler face, and yet not pale,Looks for the sunset in the west;Thy form appears with outspread wings,I hear thee from thine altar say,With angel-breath o’er former things,How beautiful is rest!—London Sunday Magazine.
No; like the priest in times of old,
Who drew the temple’s sacred veil,
Thou art gone into an inner fold;
And now, thy face turned heaven’s way,
A paler face, and yet not pale,
Looks for the sunset in the west;
Thy form appears with outspread wings,
I hear thee from thine altar say,
With angel-breath o’er former things,
How beautiful is rest!
—London Sunday Magazine.