Their eyes watch for the morning hue;
  Their little grain,[143] expelling night,
  So shines and sings, as if it knew
  The path unto the house of light: 
    It seems their candle, howe’er done,
    Was tined[144] and lighted at the sun.

  If such a tincture, such a touch,
  So firm a longing can empower,
  Shall thy own image think it much
  To watch for thy appearing hour? 
    If a mere blast so fill the sail,
    Shall not the breath of God prevail?

  O thou immortal Light and Heat,
  Whose hand so shines through all this frame,
  That by the beauty of the seat,
  We plainly see who made the same! 
    Seeing thy seed abides in me,
    Dwell thou in it, and I in thee.

  To sleep without thee is to die;
  Yea, ’tis a death partakes of hell;
  For where thou dost not close the eye,
  It never opens, I can tell: 
    In such a dark, Egyptian border
    The shades of death dwell and disorder

  Its joys and hopes and earnest throws,
  And hearts whose pulse beats still for light,
  Are given to birds, who but thee knows
  A love-sick soul’s exalted flight? 
    Can souls be tracked by any eye
    But his who gave them wings to fly?

  Only this veil, which thou hast broke,
  And must be broken yet in me;
  This veil, I say, is all the cloak
  And cloud which shadows me from thee. 
    This veil thy full-eyed love denies,
    And only gleams and fractions spies.

  O take it off.  Make no delay,
  But brush me with thy light, that I
  May shine unto a perfect day,
  And warm me at thy glorious eye. 
    O take it off; or, till it flee,
    Though with no lily, stay with me.

I have no room for poems often quoted, therefore not for that lovely one beginning “They are all gone into the world of light;” but I must not omit The Retreat, for besides its worth, I have another reason for presenting it.

  THE RETREAT.

  Happy those early days when I
  Shined in my angel-infancy! 
  Before I understood this place
  Appointed for my second race,
  Or taught my soul to fancy ought
  But a white, celestial thought;
  When yet I had not walked above
  A mile or two from my first love,
  And, looking back, at that short space
  Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
  When on some gilded cloud or flower
  My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
  And in those weaker glories spy
  Some shadows of eternity;
  Before I taught my tongue to wound
  My conscience with a sinful sound,
  Or had the black art to dispense
  A several sin to every sense;
  But felt through all this fleshly dress
  Bright shoots of everlastingness. 
    O how I long to travel back,
  And tread again that ancient track! 
  That I might once more reach that plain