  By E. G. CHARLESWORTH. Alas! and have I lost thy voice, Lost the sweet face that in my youth Shone from my breast on things to be— Hope-making, changing hope to truth, Thy face, sweet love, That madest beautiful the plainest thing Below, above? No; like the priest in times of old, Who drew the temple’s sacred veil, Thou art gone into an inner fold; And now, thy face turned heaven’s way, A paler face, and yet not pale, Looks for the sunset in the west; Thy form appears with outspread wings, I hear thee from thine altar say, With angel-breath o’er former things, How beautiful is rest! —London Sunday Magazine. decorative line
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