The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
111
TO THE REV. STOPFORD A. BROOKE, ON HIS LEAVING THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND
Now, where the high hills are
And all the airs with mountain flowers are sweet,
Tread thou; the valleys yearn not for thy feet:
Their wreathed mists bar
The stars from thee, and thee from sight of star.
And all the airs with mountain flowers are sweet,
Tread thou; the valleys yearn not for thy feet:
Their wreathed mists bar
The stars from thee, and thee from sight of star.
Now, where the clear streams run,
Seek thou with ever more familiar tread
The utmost summits where the sun burns red,
The strong free sun,
And where in air most fair God's crowns are won.
Seek thou with ever more familiar tread
The utmost summits where the sun burns red,
The strong free sun,
And where in air most fair God's crowns are won.
Beyond all earthly creeds
Thou passest now to the utmost peak, O friend,
Where in love's vision all our visions blend:
Our dreams and deeds
Fail us,—the undying love alone succeeds.
Thou passest now to the utmost peak, O friend,
Where in love's vision all our visions blend:
Our dreams and deeds
Fail us,—the undying love alone succeeds.
112
With deep sigh of relief
We watch at last the unimprisoned stars
Seen face to face and not through Church-forged bars:
Sweet even if brief
The hour when power doth shower from sun to sheaf.
We watch at last the unimprisoned stars
Seen face to face and not through Church-forged bars:
Sweet even if brief
The hour when power doth shower from sun to sheaf.
The one gold autumn hour
Whose glory compensates for all the year
Of mingled pain and labour and swift fear;
When thought to flower
Springs, and the autumnal woodbine rings life's bower.
Whose glory compensates for all the year
Of mingled pain and labour and swift fear;
When thought to flower
Springs, and the autumnal woodbine rings life's bower.
To pour our souls away
In passionate perfect love; this joy alone
Sets the divine sweet soul on God's pure throne:
This in our day
We yearn and burn to compass, as we may.
In passionate perfect love; this joy alone
Sets the divine sweet soul on God's pure throne:
This in our day
We yearn and burn to compass, as we may.
August 22, 1880.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |