LESBIA NEWMAN.
321
now receives fair consideration; the clash of interests is less loud; jarring and discord of all sorts go more against the grain. Yes, the horizon is decidedly clearing; it was high time it should. We may fairly hope that the world has passed the dark hour which precedes the dawn, and that those lines of Swinburne are in course of being realised:—
‘Liberty! what of the night?—
I see not the red rains fall,
Hear not the tempest at all,
Nor thunder in heaven any more:
All the distance is white
With the soundless feet of the sun
Night, with the woes that it wore,
Night is over and done.’
I see not the red rains fall,
Hear not the tempest at all,
Nor thunder in heaven any more:
All the distance is white
With the soundless feet of the sun
Night, with the woes that it wore,
Night is over and done.’
