Ye angels, and the spirits of the just!2
Crown'd as ye are, and thron'd in royal state!
In full seraphic strains congratulate,
Upon his waning years, a child of dust,
Who, as he fades, doth firmer find his trust
In God—and holds the world at a mean rate,
But upon heaven puts a high estimate!
This fills his soul with joy—that, with disgust.
The thirtieth round of my brief pilgrimage
To-day is ended—'tis perchance the last
I shall complete upon this earthly stage;
For toils increase, and perils thicken fast,
And mighty is the warfare that I wage:—
Yet 'tis my foes, not I, that stand aghast!
This text is part of:
[72]
still fancying himself a year older than he really1 was, had composed this birthday sonnet:
The Century Company. , 1885-1889.
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