With fervent heart he treads the weary

way,

Kneels at the throne of God's anointed,

hears

The fearful doom repentance may not stay: And yet, in death's last gasp - if he but heed

An angel voice soft whispers in his ears That for him too the Saviour once did bleed.

LOHENGRIN

STRAIN, strain thine eyes, this parting is for aye!

Grief have her will of thee! Thy faith confessed

To his unequal, he must go, the quest

Fulfilled that brought him hither on thy day

Of imminent, direst peril. Now away
To other shores bids him the Grail's behest.
Thou knewest him too late to spare thy
breast

This keen remorse, thy soul this dark dismay.

Yet canst thou face not all disconsolate

The coming years. The horn remains, the sword,

The ring he left thee, and the child whom late

Thou mournedst; while beyond the power of fate

To dim the memory of that love outpoured Upon thee by thy stainless knight and lord.

Deep in that inner temple listens the fortunate pilgrim,

Low where the red lilies tremble he lies while the still hours pass by him, Baring his brows to the silence, the dear and intimate greatness,

The touch of the friendly air, like a quiet and infinite hand.

Far, far up from the earth, in the lower spaces of heaven,

Shadowy green on the blue, rests the moving lace of the branches,

Holding the faint winds captive, dropping but lightest of murmurs,

Spirits of far-away sound, to the windless reaches below.

Deep in that inner temple listens the fortunate pilgrim;

Infinite things they say to him, the mighty groups of thy kindred,

Life beyond life, and soul within soul, and God around all as an ocean, Whispers his heart dimly guesses, secrets he never may know.