[873-] WHITTIER W ' POEM. 205 



As in life's best hours we hear 

 By the spirit's finer ear 

 His low voice within us, thus 

 The All-Father heareth us ; 

 And His holy ear we pain 

 With our noisy words and vain. 

 Not for Him our violence 

 Storming at ttfe gate of sense, 

 His the primal language, His 

 The eternal silence ! 



Even the careless heart was moved, 

 And the doubting gave assent, 

 With a gesture reverent, 

 To the Master well-beloved. 

 As thin mists are glorified 

 By the light they cannot hide, 

 All who gazed upon him saw, 

 Through its veil of tender awe, 

 How his face was still uplit 

 By the old sweet look of it, 

 Hopeful, trustful, full of cheer, 

 And the love that casts out fear. 

 Who the secret may declare 

 Of that brief, unuttered prayer ? 

 Did the shade before him come 

 Of th 1 inevitable doom, 

 Of the end of earth so near, 

 And Eternity's new year ? 



In the lap of sheltering seas 

 Rests the isle of Penikese ; 

 But the lord of the domain 

 Comes not to his own again ; 

 When the eyes that follow fail, 

 On a vaster sea his sail 

 Drifts beyond our beck and hail. 



