15 SEPTEMBER 1883, Page 14



WHOEER bath wept one tear, or borne one pain (The Master said, and entered into rest), Not fearing wrath, nor meaning to be blest, Simply for love, howbeit wrought in vain, Of one poor soul, his brother, being old; Or sick, or lost through satisfied desire, Stands in God's vestibule, and hears his Choir Make merry music on their harps of gold.

What is it but the deed of Very Love, To teach sad eyes to smile, mute lips to move And he that for a score of centuries Hath lived, and calls a continent his own, Giving world-weary souls Heaven's best surprise, Halts only at the threshold of the Throne.