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HEREAFTER.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

And struggles with the slavish element

That holds it bound; anon it shakes the world

With voice and words which speak of godlike birth,

Which murmur with the rustling of the trees,

Which echo with the echoing of the hills,

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Which clamor with the thundering of the seas;

Then we, fond dreamers, lift our drowsy heads

And wonder at the thickening of the storm.

Alas! Cassandra-like he stands alone,

While only nature understands his cry,

Seeming to weep repentance from the clouds,

And with the bending trees in penitence

To bow beneath his sternly uttered threat.

Then once again the mighty wind returns

And sweeps away the shackles round his soul,

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