CHARITY.

What is there left? The arid way,

The chilling height, whence all the world

Looks little, and each radiant day,

Like the soul's banner, flies unfurled.

May I stand here;

In this rare ether slake

My reverential lips, and fear

No last mistake?

Some spirits wander till they die,

With shattered thoughts and trembling hands;

What jarred their natures hopelessly

No living wight yet understands.

There is no goal,

Whatever end they make;

Though prayers each trusting step control,

They win mistake.

This is so true, we dare not learn

Its force until our hopes are old,

And, skyward, God's star-beacons burn

The brighter as our hearts grow cold.

If all we miss,

In the great plans that shake

The world, still God has need of this,—

Even our mistake.