Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go,

Up from the cold and joyless earth, Back to the God who bade them flow, Whose moving spirit sent them forth. But as for me, O God! for me,

The lowly creature of thy will, Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, An earth-bound pilgrim still!

Was not my spirit born to shine

Where yonder stars and suns are glowing?

To breathe with them the light divine From God's own holy altar flowing? To be, indeed, whate'er the soul

In dreams hath thirsted for so long, A portion of Heaven's glorious whole Of loveliness and song?

O, watchers of the stars at night,

Who breathe their fire, as we the air, -
Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light,
O, say, is He, the Eternal, there?
Bend there around his awful throne
The seraph's glance, the angel's knee?
Or are thy inmost depths his own,
O wild and mighty sea?

Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go!
Swift as the eagle's glance of fire,
Or arrows from the archer's bow,
To the far aim of your desire!
Thought after thought, ye thronging
rise,

Like spring-doves from the startled wood,

Bearing like them your sacrifice
Of music unto God!

All-moving spirit ! - freely forth

At thy command the strong wind goes:

Its errand to the passive earth,

Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, Until it folds its weary wing

Once more within the hand divine; So, weary from its wandering, My spirit turns to thine!

Child of the sea, the mountain stream,

From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, By evening's star and noontide's sun, Until at last it sinks to rest,

O'erwearied, in the waiting sea,
And moans upon its mother's breast,
So turns my soul to Thee!

O Thou who bidd'st the torrent flow,
Who lendest wings unto the wind,
Mover of all things! where art thou?
O, whither shall I go to find
The secret of thy resting-place?

Is there no holy wing for me,
That, soaring, I may search the space
Of highest heaven for Thee?

O, would I were as free to rise As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne,

The arrowy light of sunset skies,

Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, Which melts in heaven at twilight's close,

Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through Earth and Heaven; that I might lose

Myself in finding Thee!

WHEN the BREATH DIVINE is flowing,
Zephyr-like o'er all things going,
And, as the touch of viewless fingers,
Softly on my soul it lingers,
Open to a breath the lightest,

89

As some calm, still lake, whereon
Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan,
And the glistening water-rings
Circle round her moving wings:
When my upward gaze is turning
Where the stars of heaven are burning
Through the deep and dark abyss,
Flowers of midnight's wilderness,.
Blowing with the evening's breath
Sweetly in their Maker's path:

When the breaking day is flushing
All the east, and light is gushing
Upward through the horizon's haze,
Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays,
Spreading, until all above
Overflows with joy and love,
And below, on earth's green bosom,
All is changed to light and blossom:

When my waking fancies over
Forms of brightness flit and hover,
Holy as the seraphs are,

Who by Zion's fountains wear
On their foreheads, white and broad,
"HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD!"
When, inspired with rapture high,
It would seem a single sigh
Could a world of love create,
That my life could know no date,
And my eager thoughts could fill
Heaven and Earth, o'erflowing still!

Then, O Father! thou alone,
From the shadow of thy throne,
To the sighing of my breast
And its rapture answerest.

All my thoughts, which, upward winging,

Bathe where thy own light is springing,

All my yearnings to be free
Are as echoes answering thee !

Seldom upon lips of mine,
Father! rests that name of thine, -
Deep within my inmost breast,

In the secret place of mind,
Like an awful presence shrined,
Doth the dread idea rest!
Hushed and holy dwells it there,
Prompter of the silent prayer,
Lifting up my spirit's eye
And its faint, but earnest cry,
From its dark and cold abode,
Unto thee, my Guide and God!

out your dead."

Its light through vapors, damp, con

fined, Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, A new Electra by the bed

-

Of suffering human-kind! Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, To that pure hope which fadeth not away.

Innocent teacher of the high

And holy mysteries of Heaven! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy,

As thy low prayers were given ; And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, angel's features, smile!

An

a

deliverer's

A blessed task!-and worthy one
Who, turning from the world, as thou,
Before life's pathway had begun
To leave its spring-time flower and sun,
Had sealed her early vow;
Giving to God her beauty and her youth,
Her pure affections and her guileless
truth.

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here Could be for thee a meet reward;

Thine is a treasure far more dear,

Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear Of living mortal heard,

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With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla

glow

above,

The holy presence of Eternal Love!

Sleep on in peace.

the ancient ice below.

He comes,

The earth has not

A nobler name than thine shall be. The deeds by martial manhood wrought, The lofty energies of thought,

The fire of poesy,

These have but frail and fading honors; - thine

Shall Time unto Eternity consign.

Spirit comes! -and the quiet lake shall feel

The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,

bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

Shall

Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down,

And human pride and grandeur fall, The herald's line of long renown, The mitre and the kingly crown, Perishing glories all!

The pure devotion of thy generous heart Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part.

Spirit comes ! let us meet him

as we may,

And turn with the light of the parlorfire his evil power away;

And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by !

Labrador,

From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er, Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not decay,

Whose light shall be as a spell to thee

and a blessing on thy way!"

The lady glanced at the mirroring steel

where her form of grace was seen, Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved their clasping pearls between;

"Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray and old, And name the price of thy precious gem, and my page shall count thy gold."

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folding robe he took! "Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to thee! I ask it not, for the word of God is free!"

Nay-keep thy gold

The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left behind

Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden's mind, And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth,

And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of youth!

And she hath left the gray old halls,

where an evil faith had power, The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her bower; And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet untrod, Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God!

THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN.

NOT always as the whirlwind's rush
On Horeb's mount of fear,
Not always as the burning bush
To Midian's shepherd seer,
Nor as the awful voice which came
To Israel's prophet bards,
Nor as the tongues of cloven flame,
Nor gift of fearful words,

Not always thus, with outward sign
Of fire or voice from Heaven,

Nor unto manhood's heart alone
The holy influence steals :
Warm with a rapture not its own,
The heart of woman feels!
As she who by Samaria's wall

The Saviour's errand sought,
As those who with the fervent Paul
And meek Aquila wrought :

Or those meek ones whose martyrdom
Or those who in their Alpine home
Rome's gathered grandeur saw :

Braved the Crusader's war, When the green Vaudois, trembling, heard,

Through all its vales of death,
The martyr's song of triumph poured
From woman's failing breath.

And gently, by a thousand things

Which o'er our spirits pass, Like breezes o'er the harp's fine strings, Leaving their token strange and new Or vapors o'er a glass, Of music or of shade, The summons to the right and true

And merciful is made.

O, then, if gleams of truth and light
Flash o'er thy waiting mind,
Unfolding to thy mental sight

The wants of human-kind;
If, brooding over human grief,

The earnest wish is known
To soothe and gladden with relief
An anguish not thine own;

Though heralded with naught of fear,
Or outward sign or show;
Though only to the inward ear
It whispers soft and low;
Though dropping, as the manna fell,
Unseen, yet from above,

Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well, -
Thy Father's call of love!

MY SOUL AND I.

STAND still, my soul, in the silent dark I would question thee,