1 JULY 1905, Page 23

Where aeons out of aeons rise unroll'd In volume all

unmeasur'd and untold P There soon (as soon shall there be understood) To cease to be will seem the perfect good ; To crumble into rest ; to let the soul Loose from within, to mingle with the whole ; Poor prostrate Atlas buried, to be free, Beneath the orb of his eternity.

Nay, dreamer, cast away such views forlorn ; Thou shalt not be a bearer there, but borne.

Not from thyself the life-springs shall ascend Which no beginning knew and fear no end ; GOD in thy all shall there be all at length ; Thy strength shall rest for ever on His strength.

WhO asks the boat the upbeaving tide to fill ?

Who asks the flower to prop its native hill ?

Do wheeling eagles for the skies take care Or with their wings create the ambient air ?

For that long morrow think no thought beside This thought, that He shall then HIMSELF provide; He, mother-like, shall fold thee to His kiss, And feed, and bear thee on in timeless bliss.