He reigns above, he reigns alone: 
Systems burn out and leave his throne: 
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around him, changeless amid all—­
    Ancient of days, whose days go on!

He reigns below, he reigns alone—­
And having life in love forgone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the jealous God.  Who mourns
    Or rules with HIM, while days go on?

By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear him charge his saints that none
Among the creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against him with despair,
    However darkly days go on.

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown: 
No mortal grief deserves that crown. 
O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee,
    Whose days eternally go on!

For us, ... whatever’s undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done. 
Grief may be joy misunderstood: 
Only the Good discerns the good. 
    I trust Thee while my days go on.

Whatever’s lost, it first was won! 
We will not struggle nor impugn. 
Perhaps the cup was broken here
That Heaven’s new wine might show more clear. 
    I praise Thee while my days go on.

I praise Thee while my days go on;
I love Thee while my days go on! 
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
    I thank thee while my days go on!

And, having in thy life-depth thrown
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops some pebble small
Down some deep well, and hears it fall
    Smiling—­so I!  THY DAYS GO ON!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

BLESSED ARE THEY.

To us across the ages borne,
    Comes the deep word the Master said: 
“Blessed are they that mourn;
    They shall be comforted!”

Strange mystery!  It is better then
    To weep and yearn and vainly call,
Till peace is won from pain,
    Than not to grieve at all!

Yea, truly, though joy’s note be sweet,
    Life does not thrill to joy alone. 
The harp is incomplete
    That has no deeper tone.

Unclouded sunshine overmuch
    Falls vainly on the barren plain;
But fruitful is the touch
    Of sunshine after rain!

Who only scans the heavens by day
    Their story but half reads, and mars;
Let him learn how to say,
    “The night is full of stars!”

We seek to know Thee more and more,
  Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest,
Since sorrow is the door
  Whereby Thou enterest.

Nor can our hearts so closely come
  To Thine in any other place,
As where, with anguish dumb,
  We faint in Thine embrace.

ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.

LINES

     TO THE MEMORY OF “ANNIE,” WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.