radiance bright,

star of music in a fiery cloud!

QUESTIONINGS.

HATH this world without me wrought
Other substance than my thought?
Lives it by my sense alone,
Or by essence of its own?
Will its life, with mine begun,
Cease to be when that is done?
Or another consciousness
With the self-same forms impress?

Doth yon fire-ball, poised in air,
Hang by my permission there?
Are the clouds that wander by
But the offspring of mine eye,
Born with every glance I cast,
Perishing when that is past?
And those thousand, thousand eyes,
Scattered through the twinkling skies,
Do they draw their life from mine,
Or of their own beauty shine?

Now I close my eyes, my ears,
And creation disappears;
Yet if I but speak the word,
All creation is restored.
Or

more wonderful — within,

New creations do begin;

Flash across my inward sense
Born of the mind's omnipotence.
Soul! that all informest, say!
Shall these glories pass away?
Will those planets cease to blaze
When these eyes no longer gaze?
And the life of things be o'er
When these pulses beat no more?

Thought that in me works and lives,

Life to all things living gives,
Art thou not thyself, perchance,
But the universe in trance?
A reflection inly flung

By that world thou fanciedst sprung
From thyself, thyself a dream,
Of the world's thinking, thou ne

theme?

Be it thus, or be thy birth
From a source above the earth,
Be thou matter, be thou mind,
In thee alone myself I find,
And through thee, alone, for me,
Hath this world reality.
Therefore, in thee will I live,

rare

Than reality doth wear,

Losing still that I may find

This bounded self in boundless mind.

We know when moons shall wane,

within!

Thou of the deep low tone!

Answer me through life's restless din, Where is the spirit flown?

And the voice answered, "Be thou

still!

Enough to know is given;

cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,—

But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

fulfil;

Thine is to trust in Heaven!”

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north

wind's breath,

And stars to set,- but all,

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,

oh! Death.

thou art there.

rest,

Thou art where foe meets foe, and

trumpets rend

sorrow lies

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes;

princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north

wind's breath,

And stars to set, but all,

untroubled springs

Of hope make melody where'er ye

tread;

And o'er your sleep bright shadows,

from the wings

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;

oh! Death.

ling low,

Is woman's tenderness,- how soon her woe.

Her lot is on you,-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,

And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds,- -a wasted

shower! [clay, And to make idols, and to find them And to bewail that worship,-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you,-to be found untired,

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain. [decay, Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer And oh! to love through all things,— therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime,

As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight.

Earth will forsake,-oh! happy to have given

The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven!