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'Ii.

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Joy! Look at his glittering rainbow wings- No alloy Lies in the radiant gifts he brings; Tender and sweet, He is come to-day, Tender and sweet: While chains of love on his silver feet Will hold him in lingering fond delay. But greet him quickly, he will not stay, Soon he will leave us; but though for others All his brightest treasures are stored ;— "Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord!"

in.

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Pain!
Let us arise and go forth to greet him;

Not in vain
Is the summons come for us to meet him;

He will stay,
And darken our sun;
He will stay
A desolate night, a weary day.

Since in that shadow our work is done, And in that shadow our crowns are won, Let us say still, while his bitter chalice

Slowly into our hearts is poured,— "Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord!"

IV.

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Death!
But do not shudder and do not fear;

Hold your breath,
For a kingly presence is drawing near.
Cold and bright
Is his flashing steel,
Cold and bright
The smile that comes like a starry light
To calm the terror and grief we feel;
He comes to help and to save and heal:
Then let us, baring our hearts and kneeling,
Sing, while we wait this Angel's sword,—
"Blessed is he that cometh
In the name of the Lord!"

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DREAM-LIFE.

ISTEN, friend, and I will tell you Why I sometimes seem so glad, Then, without a reason changing, Soon become so grave and sad. Half my life I live a beggar, Ragged, helpless, and alone; But the other half a monarch,

With my courtiers round my throne.

Half my life is full of sorrow,
Half of joy, still fresh and new:

One of these lives is a fancy.
But the other one is true.

While I live and feast on gladness,
Still I feel the thought remain,

This must soon end,—nearer, nearer,
Comes the life of grief and pain.

While I live a wretched beggar,
One bright hope my lot can cheer;

Soon, soon, thou shalt have thy kingdom,
Brighter hours are drawing near.

So you see my life is twofold,

Half a pleasure, half a grief; Thus all joy is somewhat tempered,

And all sorrow finds relief.

Which, you ask me, is the real life,
Which the Dream—the joy, or woe?

Hush, friend! it is little matter,
And, indeed—I never know.

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