The minister’s face was pale as the horse that grew gray when Death mounted him; and his eyes shone with a feverous brilliancy.  The draper breathed a deep breath, and rubbed his white forehead.  The minister rose and began again to pace the room.  Drew would have taken his departure, but feared leaving him in such a state.  He bethought himself of something that might help to calm him, and took out his pocket-book.  The minister’s dream had moved him deeply, but he restrained himself all he could from manifesting his emotion.

“Your vision,” he said, “reminds me of some verses of Mr. Wingfold’s, of which Mrs. Wingfold very kindly let me take a copy.  I have them here in my pocket-book; may I read them to you?”

The minister gave rather a listless consent, but that was enough for Mr. Drew’s object, and he read the following poem.

  SHALL THE DEAD PRAISE THEE?

  I can not praise Thee.  By his instrument
    The organ-master sits, nor moves a hand;
  For see the organ pipes o’erthrown and bent,
    Twisted and broke, like corn-stalks tempest-fanned!

  I well could praise Thee for a flower, a dove;
    But not for life that is not life in me;
  Not for a being that is less than love—­
    A barren shoal half-lifted from a sea,

  And for the land whence no wind bloweth ships,
    And all my living dead ones thither blown—­
  Rather I’d kiss no more their precious lips,
    Than carry them a heart so poor and prone.

  Yet I do bless Thee Thou art what Thou art,
    That Thou dost know Thyself what Thou dost know—­
  A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart,
    Beating Thy blood to all in bounteous flow.

  And I can bless Thee too for every smart,
    For every disappointment, ache, and fear;
  For every hook Thou fixest in my heart,
    For every burning cord that draws me near.

  But prayer these wake, not song.  Thyself I crave. 
    Come Thou, or all Thy gifts away I fling. 
  Thou silent, I am but an empty grave;
    Think to me, Father, and I am a king.

  Then, like the wind-stirred bones, my pipes shall quake,
    The air burst, as from burning house the blaze;
  And swift contending harmonies shall shake
    Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.

  Thee praised, I haste me humble to my own—­
    Then love not shame shall bow me at their feet,
  Then first and only to my stature grown,
    Fulfilled of love, a servant all-complete.