Methought that I, out of the strong black jaw

And iron grasp of law,

Had pass'd over the poor earthly line

Into the land divine,

Where all things are made new, and grace

Us with her tendernesses.

Ah! I who loved the living love its ghost,
And, loving, I am lost.

redresses

What shall I say?--that thoughts like these returning
Are scarcely worth the mourning,--

Nay, that they have a beauty in their place,
Disgracing not my grace,

Like green corn-ears ungilded of the suns
Bettering the golden ones?

Not this shall be my argument—but this:
"See lest thy crown thou miss ;

And, that thou hear not one day bitter sentence,
Repent of thy repentance."

II.

CHARACTERS, INSCRIPTIONS,

ETC.

M

R. C. TRENCH, ARCHBISHOP OF

DUBLIN.

RESIGNED NOVEMBER 28, 1884.

"Laureatus spiritu scriptis coronatur suis."

THOU whom we miss and mourn,
Though not yet graveward borne,
Who by this act of faith

Hast antedated death,—

Thee our love speaks about,

As if thy presence out

Had stately to the vast

Darkness and silence pass'd;
As if all light that lies

Deep in those thoughtful eyes,
Splendour and shadowy grace
Of that pathetic face,

All the strange music known
Unto thy voice alone,
Of prayer and sorrow born,
Mix'd with majestic scorn
Of baseness and of ill,-
As if all these were still;

As if the light and sound

Were changed for the profound

Quiet and darken'd spot
Where all things are forgot.
Thou, in all working such
As thy true hand did touch,
Thou, with an aim sublime,
Master, didst write for time.
Thou scornedst to imprint
One evanescent tint
Upon the measured page
Thou mad'st so grave and sage.
Wherefore the years shall look
With thanks upon thy book.

Thou, when an angry spell
On clamorous hundreds fell;
Or sometimes when men press'd
Thorns to that patient breast,
Or their suspicion laid

Upon that stately head,
Slowly didst turn away
Heart-wounded from the fray,

And unto God alone

Madest majestic moan.

God! by whose will created
The time and man are mated,

Give us such chiefs again,
Give us such kings of men
Who shout no narrow creed,

And do no little deed,
But to their work impart

A grace-touch'd human heart.