Part 24

As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear, As for the lost we grapple, Though all the rest are here, --

In broken mathematics We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes!

XIII.

MEMORIALS.

Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did," Industrious until

The thimble weighed too heavy, The stitches stopped themselves, And then 't was put among the dust Upon the closet shelves.

A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him, -- At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.

XIV.

I went to heaven, -- 'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew. People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names. Almost contented I could be 'Mong such unique Society.

XV.

Their height in heaven comforts not, Their glory nought to me; 'T was best imperfect, as it was; I 'm finite, I can't see.

The house of supposition, The glimmering frontier That skirts the acres of perhaps, To me shows insecure.

The wealth I had contented me; If 't was a meaner size, Then I had counted it until It pleased my narrow eyes

Better than larger values, However true their show; This timid life of evidence Keeps pleading, "I don't know."

XVI.

There is a shame of nobleness Confronting sudden pelf, -- A finer shame of ecstasy Convicted of itself.

A best disgrace a brave man feels, Acknowledged of the brave, -- One more "Ye Blessed" to be told; But this involves the grave.

XVII.

TRIUMPH.

Triumph may be of several kinds. There 's triumph in the room When that old imperator, Death, By faith is overcome.

There 's triumph of the finer mind When truth, affronted long, Advances calm to her supreme, Her God her only throng.

A triumph when temptation's bribe Is slowly handed back, One eye upon the heaven renounced And one upon the rack.

Severer triumph, by himself Experienced, who can pass Acquitted from that naked bar, Jehovah's countenance!

XVIII.

Pompless no life can pass away; The lowliest career To the same pageant wends its way As that exalted here. How cordial is the mystery! The hospitable pall A "this way" beckons spaciously, -- A miracle for all!

XIX.