POETRY.
THE MYSTIC.
WITHIN a squalid city-court A weaver rents one cellar-room ; The neighbours' children deem it sport To watch the old man at his loom.
So half in daring, half in fear, As to and fro the shuttle flies, They creep down to his side and peer Into his unregarding eyes.
His form is famine-gaunt and bowed, His aged hands have lost their skill; But, like the moon within a cloud.
A hidden light his soul doth fill.
It shineth through the careworn face, And o'er his sordid garb it flings The viewless mantle of a grace Not found in palaces of kings.
On journeys high his spirit fares, Of realms of sunless light is free; The triumph of the saints be shares, He stands beside the Crystal Sea ; He hears the mystic anthem tone ; He mingles with the tearless throng Who meet before the Great White Throne ; His voice uplifts the Wedding Song.
But ah ! His mortal lips are sealed, That vision he may not declare ; Its glories all are unrevealed Unto the children gazing there.
In barefoot silence as they came, They climb his cellar steps once more And soon forget him in a game Of shuttlecock and battledore. R. H. LAW.
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