A dying man on his pillow Whose white soul fled to his face, Puts on her garment of joyfulness And stretches to Death's embrace. Passion, rapture, and blindness, Peace after great tribulation, And victory hung in the air. WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE. Victoria et per victoriam vit Tout ou Rien Lobe. O LOVE OF GOD! HOU Grace Divine, encircling all, fall, O Love of God most free. When over dizzy heights we go, One soft hand blinds our eyes, The other leads us safe and slow, And though we turn us from Thy face, Thou hold'st us still in Thine embrace, The saddened heart, the restless soul, But not alone Thy care we claim, And filled and quickened by Thy breath, To rise o'er sin and fear and death, O Love of God! to Thee. ELIZA SCUDder. A VALEDICTION. God be with thee, my belovèd,--GOD be with thee! Else alone thou goest forth, Thy face unto the North, Moor and pleasaunce all around thee and beneath thee Looking equal in one snow; While I who try to reach thee With the farewell and the hollo, And cannot reach thee so. Alas, I can but teach thee! GOD be with thee, my beloved,-GOD be with thee. Can I teach thee, my beloved,—can I teach thee? The counsel would be light, The wisdom, poor of all that could enrich thee; My right would show like left; My raising would depress thee, My choice of light would blind thee, Alas, I can but bless thee ! May GOD teach thee, my beloved, may God teach thee. Can I bless thee, my belovèd,—can I bless thee? What blessing word can I From mine own tears keep dry? What flowers grow in my field wherewith to dress thee? My good reverts to ill; My calmnesses would move thee, My softnesses would prick thee, Alas, I can but love thee! May God bless thee, my beloved,-may God bless thee ! Can I love thee, my beloved--can I love thee ? With no help in my hand, When, strong as death, I fain would watch above thee! My love-kiss can deny No tear that falls beneath it ; May GOD love thee, my beloved may GOD love thee ! E. B. BROWNING. LOVE'S DEEP LIFE. OUR love is not a fading, earthly flower : To us the leafless Autumn is not bare, Nor Winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green: |