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But to the prey whenas he drew more nigh,

His bloody rage assuaged with remorse,

And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force.

Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet.

And licked her lily hands with fawning tongue,

As he her wronged innocence did weet,

Oh, how can beauty master the most strong,

And simple truth subdue avenging wrong!

Whose yielded pride and proud submission,

Still dreading death, when she had marked long.

Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion.

And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection.

[From The Faerie Queene.]

Eftsoones unto an holy hospital,
That was foreby the way, she did

him bring; In which seven Bead-men, that had

vowe.l all

Their life to service of high heaven's king.

Did spend their days in doing godly things:

Their gates to all were open evermore,

That by the weary way were travelling;

And one sat waiting ever them before,

To call in corners by, that needy were and poor.

The first of them, that eldest was and best,

Of all the house had charge and government,

As guardian and steward of the rest:

His office was to give entertainment And lodging unto all that came and went;

Not unto such as could him feast again,

And double quite for that he on them spent;

But such, as want of harbor did constrain:

Those for God's sake his duty was to entertain.

The second was as almoner of the


His office was the hungry for to feed,

And thirsty give to drink; a work of


He feared not once himself to be in need,

Ne cared to hoard for those whom

he did breed: The grace of God he laid up still in


Which as a stock he left unto his


He had enough; what need him care

for more? And had he less, yet some he would

give to the poor.

The third had of their wardrobe custody,

In which were not rich tires, nor

garments gay, The plumes of pride and wings of


But clothes meet to keep keen cold away,

And naked nature seemly to array; With which bare wretched wights he

daily clad, The images of God in earthly clay; And if that no spare clothes to give

he had,

His own coat he would cut, and it distribute glad.

The fourth appointed by his office was

Poor prisoners to relieve with gracious aid.

And captives to redeem with price of brass

From Turks and Saracens, which

them had stayed; And though they faulty were, yet

well he weighed, That God to us forgiveth every hour Much more than that, why they in

bands were laid; And he, that harrowed hell with

heavy store, The faulty souls from thence brought

to his heavenly bower.

The fifth had charge sick persons to attend,

And comfort those in point of death

which lay; For them most needeth comfort in

the end.

When sin, and hell, and death, do

most dismay The feeble soul departing hence


All is but lost, that living we bestow,
If not well ended at our dying day.
O man, have mind of that last bitter

For as the tree does fall, so lies it ever low.

[From The Faerie Queen.]

What man is he that boasts of fleshly might

And vain assurance of mortality? Which, all so soon as it doth come to fight

Against spiritual foes, yields by and


Or from the field most cowardly doth


Xe let the man ascribe it to his skill,

That thorough grace hath gained victory.

If any strength we have, it is to ill; But all the good is God's, both power and eke will.

[ From The Faerie Queene.)


And is there care in heaven? and is there love

In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,

That may compassion of their evils move?

There is:—else much more wretched were the case

Of men than beasts. But oh! th'exdis grace

Of Highest God that loves his creatures so,

And all his works with mercy doth

embrace, That blessed angeh he sends to and


To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succor us that succor want!

How oft do they with golden pinions cleave

The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, [tant!

Against foul fiends to aid us mili

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward.

And their bright squadrons round about us plant;

And all for love and nothing for reward;

Oh, why should Heavenly God to men have such regard!

Harriet Prescott Spofford.


Love, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest,
When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast,

When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us,
And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed, —

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth,
Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth;

Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers,
Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth.

That's our love. But you and I, dear, — shall we linger with it yet,
Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net,—
On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen but you the blossom,
Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet?

Oh. beloved, — if ascending. — when we have endowed the world
With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled;

Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled?

Only this our yearning answers. — whereso'er that way defile,
Not a film shall part us through the a.ons of that mighty while,

In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms si ill together.
Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great smile!


What memory fired her pallid face,

What passion stirred her blood,
What tide of sorrow and desire

Poured its forgotten flood
Upon a heart that ceased to beat,
Long since, with thought that life

was sweet
When nights were rich with vernal

And the rose burst its bud?

Had not the western glory then

Stolen through the latticed room. Her funeral raiment would have shed

A more heart-breaking gloom; Had not a dimpled convent-maid Hung in the doorway, half afraid, And left the melancholy place Bright with her blush and bloom!

Beside the gilded harp she stood,

And through the singing strings Wound those wan hands of folded prayer

In murmurous preludings.
Then, like a voice, the harp rang

Its melody, as climb the sky,
Melting against the melting blue,
Some bird's vibrating wings.

Ah, why, of all the songs that grow

Forever tenderer.
Chose she that passionate refrain

Where lovers 'mid the stir
Of wassailers that round them pass
Hide their sweet secret? Now,

In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled,
What meant that song to her!

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