It is nothing now,

That trifles thus should move thee; Seneca

eyes,

When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,

That earth in darkness lies.

THE LIBRARY.

THOU, whom the world with heartless inter

course

Hath wearied, and thy spirit's hoarded gold
Coldly impoverished, and with husks repaid,
Turn hither. 'Tis a quiet resting-place,
Silent, yet peopled well. Here mayst thou
hold

Communion eloquent, and undismayed,
Even with the greatest of the ancient earth,
Sages, and sires of science. These shall gird
And sublimate thy soul, until it soar
Above the elements, and view with scorn
The thraldom of an hour.

Doth thy heart bleed, And is there none to heal, — no comforter? Turn to the mighty dead. They shall unlock Full springs of sympathy, and with cool hand Compress thy fevered brow. The poet's sigh From buried ages on thine ear shall steal, Like that sweet harp which soothed the mood of Saul.

The cloistered hero and the throneless king
In stately sadness shall admonish thee
How hope hath dealt with man. A map of woe
The martyr shall unfold, till in his pangs
Pity doth merge all memory of thine own.
Perchance unceasing care or thankless toil
Doth vex thy spirit, and sharp thorns press deep.
Into the naked nerve. Still, hither come,
And close thy door upon the clamoring

crowd,

Though for a moment. Grave and glorious

shades

SEMITA JUSTORUM.

THE WAY OF THE JUST.

WHEN I look back upon my former race, Seasons I see at which the Inward Ray More brightly burned, or guided some new

way;

Truth, in its wealthier scene and nobler space, Given for my eye to range, and feet to trace.

And next, I mark, 't was trial did convey, Or grief, or pain, or strange eventful day, To my tormented soul such larger grace. So now, whene'er, in journeying on, I feel The shadow of the Providential Hand,

Deep breathless stirrings shoot across my breast,

Searching to know what he will now reveal,
What sin uncloak, what stricter rule command,
And girding me to work his full behest.
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

1833.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, this three years day these eyes, though clear

To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light their seeing have forgot. Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot

ask?