27 AUGUST 1887, Page 18

POETRY.

Nor comes there on the free night-freshened air One backward cry, one wail of chill despair, But whisperings of loftier enterprise.

The orange glow still streaks the Western skies, And tells of Hope ; the mountains dimly fair Are dreams of Love divine ; and everywhere An onward spirit o'er the great world lies.

The swinging tide, that bares the sands forlorn, Comes back with rushing depths of glittering seas : And dare I faint, while to my soul are borne, By sound of plashing wave or singing breeze, Calls to an upward path more bravely trod, And all the silence is instinct with God P W. W. B.