It must be so—­Plato, thou reasonest well!—­
  Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire. 
  This longing after immortality? 
  Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
  Of falling into naught?  Why shrinks the soul
  Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 
  ’Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
  ’Tis Heaven itself, that points out a hereafter,
  And intimates eternity to man. 
    Eternity!—­thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
  Through what variety of untried being,
  Through what new scenes and changes, must we pass! 
  The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
  But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
  Here will I hold.  If there’s a Power above us
  (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
  Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
  And that which he delights in must be happy. 
  But when? or where?  This world was made for Caesar. 
  I’m weary of conjectures,—­this must end ’em.

  (Laying his hand on his sword.)

    Thus am I doubly armed:  my death and life,
  My bane and antidote, are both before me: 
  This in a moment brings me to an end;
  But this informs me I shall never die. 
  The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
  At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
  The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
  Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
  But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
  Unhurt amid the war of elements,
  The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds!

JOSEPH ADDISON.

* * * * *

EDWIN AND PAULINUS: 

    THE CONVERSION OF NORTHUMBRIA.

  The black-haired gaunt Paulinus
    By ruddy Edwin stood:—­
  “Bow down, O king of Deira,
    Before the blessed Rood! 
  Cast out thy heathen idols. 
    And worship Christ our Lord.” 
  —­But Edwin looked and pondered,
    And answered not a word.

  Again the gaunt Paulinus
    To ruddy Edwin spake: 
  “God offers life immortal
    For his dear Son’s own sake! 
  Wilt thou not hear his message,
    Who bears the keys and sword?”
  —­But Edwin looked and pondered,
    And answered not a word.

  Rose then a sage old warrior
    Was fivescore winters old;
  Whose beard from chin to girdle
    Like one long snow-wreath rolled: 
  “At Yule-time in our chamber
    We sit in warmth and light,
  While cold and howling round us
    Lies the black land of Night.

  “Athwart the room a sparrow
    Darts from the open door: 
  Within the happy hearth-light
    One red flash,—­and no more! 
  We see it come from darkness,
    And into darkness go:—­
  So is our life.  King Edwin! 
    Alas, that it is so!

  “But if this pale Paulinus
    Have somewhat more to tell;
  Some news of Whence and Whither,
    And where the soul will dwell;—­
  If on that outer darkness
    The sun of hope may shine;—­
  He makes life worth the living! 
    I take his God for mine!”