.
He paused and questioned with his eye The hearers' verdict on his song.
A low voice asked: Is 't well to pry Into the secrets which belong Only to God ?--The life to be Is still the unguessed mystery Unsealed, unpierced the cloudy walls remain, We beat with dream and wish the soundless doors in vain.
"But faith beyond our sight may go." He said: "The gracious Fatherhood Can only know above, below, Eternal purposes of good.
From our free heritage of will, The bitter springs of pain and ill Flow only in all worlds.

The perfect day Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway." "I know," she said, "the letter kills; That on our arid fields of strife And heat of clashing texts distils The clew of spirit and of life.
But, searching still the written Word, I fain would find, Thus saith the Lord, A voucher for the hope I also feel That sin can give no wound beyond love's power to heal." "Pray," said the Man of Books, "give o'er A theme too vast for time and place.
Go on, Sir Poet, ride once more Your hobby at his old free pace.
But let him keep, with step discreet, The solid earth beneath his feet.
In the great mystery which around us lies, The wisest is a fool, the fool Heaven-helped is wise." The Traveller said: "If songs have creeds, Their choice of them let singers make; But Art no other sanction needs Than beauty for its own fair sake.
It grinds not in the mill of use, Nor asks for leave, nor begs excuse; It makes the flexile laws it deigns to own, And gives its atmosphere its color and its tone.
"Confess, old friend, your austere school Has left your fancy little chance; You square to reason's rigid rule The flowing outlines of romance.
With conscience keen from exercise, And chronic fear of compromise, You check the free play of your rhymes, to clap A moral underneath, and spring it like a trap." The sweet voice answered: "Better so Than bolder flights that know no check; Better to use the bit, than throw The reins all loose on fancy's neck.
The liberal range of Art should be The breadth of Christian liberty, Restrained alone by challenge and alarm Where its charmed footsteps tread the border land of harm.
"Beyond the poet's sweet dream lives The eternal epic of the man.
He wisest is who only gives, True to himself, the best he can; Who, drifting in the winds of praise, The inward monitor obeys; And, with the boldness that confesses fear, Takes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience steer.
"Thanks for the fitting word he speaks, Nor less for doubtful word unspoken; For the false model that he breaks, As for the moulded grace unbroken; For what is missed and what remains, For losses which are truest gains, For reverence conscious of the Eternal eye, And truth too fair to need the garnish of a lie." Laughing, the Critic bowed.

"I yield The point without another word; Who ever yet a case appealed Where beauty's judgment had been heard?
And you, my good friend, owe to me Your warmest thanks for such a plea, As true withal as sweet.

For my offence Of cavil, let her words be ample recompense." Across the sea one lighthouse star, With crimson ray that came and went, Revolving on its tower afar, Looked through the doorway of the tent.
While outward, over sand-slopes wet, The lamp flashed down its yellow jet On the long wash of waves, with red and green Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam-wreaths seen.
"Sing while we may,--another day May bring enough of sorrow;'-- thus Our Traveller in his own sweet lay, His Crimean camp-song, hints to us," The lady said.

"So let it be; Sing us a song," exclaimed all three.
She smiled: "I can but marvel at your choice To hear our poet's words through my poor borrowed voice.".