THINK thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Outstretched in the sun's warmth upon the shore,
Thou say'st: "Man's measured path is all gone o'er :
Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh,
Man clomb until he touched the truth; and I,

Even I, am he whom it was destined for."

How should this be! Art thou then so much more Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst reap thereby?

Nay, come up hither. From this wave-washed mound
Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me;

Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown'd.
Miles and miles distant though the last line be,
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond,—
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea.

ΟΧΟΙ.

LOST DAYS.

(House of Life.-LXXXVI.)

THE lost days of my life until to-day,

What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat Sown once for food but trodden into clay ? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay ?

Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway?

I do not see them here; but after death

God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. "I am thyself,-what hast thou done to me?" "And I-and I-thyself," (lo! each one saith,) "And thou thyself to all eternity!"

CXCII.

"RETRO ME, SATHANA!"

(House of Life.-xc.)

GET thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curled,
Stooping against the wind, a charioteer

Is snatched from out his chariot by the hair,
So shall Time be; and as the void car, hurled
Abroad by reinless steeds, even so the world:
Yea, even as chariot-dust upon the air,
It shall be sought and not found anywhere.
Get thee behind me, Satan. Oft unfurled,
Thy perilous wings can beat and break like lath
Much mightiness of men to win thee praise.
Leave these weak feet to tread in narrow ways.
Thou still, upon the broad vine-sheltered path,
Mayst wait the turning of the phials of wrath

For certain years, for certain months and days.

CXCIII.

A SUPERSCRIPTION.

(House of Life.-XCVII.)

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been ;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between ;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life s form and Love's, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,

Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise

Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,-
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

N

CXCIV.

DEMOCRACY DOWNTRODDEN.

How long, O Lord ?—The voice is sounding still :
Not only heard beneath the altar-stone,

Not heard of John Evangelist alone

In Patmos. It doth cry aloud and will
Between the earth's end and earth's end, until

The day of the great reckoning-bone for bone,
And blood for righteous blood, and groan for groan :
Then shall it cease on the air with a sudden thrill;
Not slowly growing fainter if the rod

Strikes here or there amid the evil throng

Or one oppressor's hand is stayed and numbs ; Not till the vengeance that is coming comes. For shall all hear the voice excepting God,

Or God not listen, hearing -Lord, how long?