How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
    To come to succour us that succour want! 
    How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
    The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant,
    Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! 
    They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward,
    And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
    And all for love, and nothing for reward;
  O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard!

EDMUND SPENSER.

* * * * *

SAINT AGNES.

  Deep on the convent-roof the snows
    Are sparkling to the moon: 
  My breath to heaven like vapor goes: 
    May my soul follow soon! 
  The shadows of the convent-towers
    Slant down the snowy sward,
  Still creeping with the creeping hours
    That lead me to my Lord: 
  Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
    As are the frosty skies,
  Or this first snow-drop of the year
    That in my bosom lies.

  As these white robes are soiled and dark,
    To yonder shining ground;
  As this pale taper’s earthly spark,
    To yonder argent round;
  So shows my soul before the Lamb,
    My spirit before Thee;
  So in mine earthly house I am,
    To that I hope to be. 
  Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
    Through all yon starlight keen,
  Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
    In raiment white and clean.

  He lifts me to the golden doors;
    The flashes come and go;
  All heaven bursts her starry floors,
    And strows her lights below,
  And deepens on and up! the gates
    Roll backhand far within
  For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
    To make me pure of sin. 
  The sabbath of Eternity,
    One sabbath deep and wide—­
  A light upon the shining sea—­
    The Bridegroom with his bride!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

PRAISE OF THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY.

[The poem De Contemptu Mundi was written by Bernard de Morlaix, Monk of Cluni.  The translation following is of a portion of the poem distinguished by the sub-title “Laus Patriae Coelestis.”]

  The world is very evil,
    The times are waxing late;
  Be sober and keep vigil,
    The Judge is at the gate,—­
  The Judge that comes in mercy,
    The Judge that comes with might,
  To terminate the evil,
    To diadem the right. 
  When the just and gentle Monarch
    Shall summon from the tomb,
  Let man, the guilty, tremble,
    For Man, the God, shall doom!

  Arise, arise, good Christian,
    Let right to wrong succeed;
  Let penitential sorrow
    To heavenly gladness lead,—­
  To the light that hath no evening,
    That knows nor moon nor sun,
  The light so new and golden,
    The light that is but one.