Loosed from the spirit of infirmity, listen its cry. 
“Was it I that longed for oblivion,
O wonderful Love! was it I,
That deep in its easeful water
My wounded soul might lie? 
That over the wounds and anguish
The easeful flood might roll? 
A river of loving-kindness
Has healed and hidden the whole. 
Lo! in its pitiful bosom
Vanish the sins of my youth,—­
Error and shame and backsliding
Lost in celestial ruth.

“O grace too great! 
O excellency of my new estate!

“No more, for the friends that love me,
I shall veil my face or grieve
Because love outrunneth deserving;
I shall be as they believe. 
And I shall be strong to help them,
Filled of Thy fulness with stores
Of comfort and hope and compassion. 
Oh, upon all my shores,
With the waters with which Thou dost flood me,
Bid me, my Father, o’erflow! 
Who can taste Thy divineness,
Nor hunger and thirst to bestow? 
Send me, oh, send me! 
The wanderers let me bring! 
The thirsty let me show
Where the rivers of gladness spring,
And fountains of mercy flow! 
How in the hills shall they sit and sing,
With valleys of peace below!”

Oh that the keys of our hearts the angels would bear in their bosoms! 
For revelation fades and fades away,
Dream-like becomes, and dim, and far-withdrawn;
And evening comes to find the soul a prey,
That was caught up to visions at the dawn;
Sword of the spirit,—­still it sheathes in rust,
And lips of prophecy are sealed with dust.

High lies the better country,
The land of morning and perpetual spring;
But graciously the warder
Over its mountain-border
Leans to us, beckoning,—­bids us, “Come up hither!”
And though we climb with step unfixed and slow,
From visioning heights of hope we look off thither,
And we must go.

And we shall go!  And we shall go! 
We shall not always weep and wander so,—­
Not always in vain,
By merciful pain,
Be upcast from the hell we seek again! 
How shall we,
Whom the stars draw so, and the uplifting sea? 
Answer, thou Secret Heart! how shall it be,
With all His infinite promising in thee?

Beloved! beloved! not cloud and fire alone
From bondage and the wilderness restore
And guide the wandering spirit to its own;
But all His elements, they go before: 
Upon its way the seasons bring,
And hearten with foreshadowing
The resurrection-wonder,
What lands of death awake to sing
And germs of hope swell under;
And full and fine, and full and fine,
The day distils life’s golden wine;
And night is Palace Beautiful, peace-chambered. 
All things are ours; and life fills up of them
Such measure as we hold. 
For ours beyond the gate,
The deep things, the untold,
We only wait.

THE PROFESSOR’S STORY.

CHAPTER XXIII.