But I have loved, as all should love,

The whole of humankind,

And there are men of worth who know

How much I honour Mind.

And I have heard the wild-bird sing,
High up the vault of heaven,
Till there, on Inspiration's wing,
I felt my spirit driven.

And I have heard old Ocean roar,
Whilst wonder seized my soul,
And bound me to the rocky shore,
To watch his billows roll.

And I have learnt to look on earth

As if she lay in bliss,

And bless each flow'ret of her birth

With an admiring kiss ;

Till zephyrs seemed as angels' breath, And stars as cherubs' eyes,

And Beauty as no child of death,

But goddess of the skies.

At length I learnt to look above,

And found life's pilgrim-road

Was but a path of heavenly love,
That led right up to God.

I took my lyre and dashed its strings,
And music, wild and free,

Sent forth the tuneful echoings
Of Nature's minstrelsy.

TO MILLY.

LIKE summer, soft and breezy, When swallows skim the sea,

Comes my song in numbers easy And refreshing unto me.

So I'll pipe a lay to Milly,

The merry-making thing—

My pretty cottage lily,

And picture of the Spring.

Oh, a beauty bright and brisky,

And musical as May;

Is my lassie, fair and frisky,
My little dancing fay.

In Nature's own adorning

This cherub thing appears,

And welcome as the morning

Is this pledge of loving years.

Like a starry glory dancing

In the cloudless ebon sky, Is the wild romantic glancing

Of her laughter-lighted eye.

Or like the silver gleaming
On an Ethiopic queen,

Is the life so brightly beaming
From her crystal orb, I ween.

There's a rich and pearly beauty
On that joy-illumined brow,

And, as love's delightful duty,
I'll paint that beauty now.

Her cheeks are twin-blown roses,

Fresh pencilled by the sun,

Which Time each morn exposes,

But hides as eve comes on.

Her lips are two sweet cherries,

The luscious fruit of love,

And rich as holly-berries,

When winter paints the grove.

Would you see this pretty creature In her wild and merry joy,

With a smile on every feature?

You must see her with my boy.

You must hear her accents choral,

Like the tones of silver rills,

As they gush from hedge-rows floral, To tinkle down the hills.

You have seen the lamb revealing
All its happy life could show,
While, with true maternal feeling,
Its dam would gambol too.

Not half so sweet and winning
Is that pretty scene to me,

As my little one's beginning
Her romp upon my knee.

Farewell to woodlands mossy,
And violets of the glade,

To daisies white and glossy,

And warblers of the shade.