Volume 6 — "Beati Mites, Quoniam Ipsi Possidebunt Terram."

Thy song is not the song of morn, O Thrush! but calmer and more strong, While sunset woods around thee burn, And fire-touched stems resound thy song. O songstress of the thorn, whereon As yet the white but streaks the green, Sing on! sing on! Thou sing'st as one That sings of what his eyes have seen. In thee some Seraph's rapture tells Of things thou know'st not! Heaven draws near: I hear the Immortal City's bells: The triumph of the blest I hear. The whole wide earth, to God heart-bare, Basks like some happy Umbrian vale By Francis trodden and by Clare, When anthems sweetened every gale. When greatness thirsted to be good, When faith was meek, and love was brave, When hope by every cradle stood, And rainbows spanned each new-made grave. Aubrey De Vere.