lives; but even they are for us but "stepping stones to higher things." We cannot, and we need not, repeat the work of Cadmon, of Chaucer, of Spenser, or of Milton. As our nineteenth century poetess says:— "The past is past, God lives, and lifts his glorious mornings up We hurry onward to extinguish hell With our fresh souls, our younger hope, and God's Die also! And that then our periods Of Life may round themselves to memory As smoothly, as on our graves the burial sods, We must now look to it to excel as ye, And bear our age as far, unlimited By the last landmark, so to be invoked By future generations as their Dead." Here we leave the story of our English Literature, lifting up our hearts in thanks to God for its glorious heritage, and setting forth with the courage that springs from faith to carry on the new work of a new day. |