E'en our plain neighbor, as he sips his tea,
I doubt not through his window feels the sky
Of evening bring a sweet and tender plea
That links him even to dreamers such as I.

So through the symbol alphabet that glows
Through all creation, higher still and higher
The spirit builds its faith, and ever grows
Beyond the rude forms of its first desire.

O boundless Beauty and Beneficence !

O deathless Soul that breathest in the weeds, And in a starlit sky! E'en through the rents Of accident thou serv'st all human needs,

Nor stoopest idly to our petty cares;

Nor knowest great or small, since, folded in By Universal Love, all being shares

The life that ever shall be or hath been.

C. P. CRANCH.

THE GOLDEN SUNSET.

HE golden sea its mirror spreads

TH

Beneath the golden skies,

And but a narrow strip between

Of land and shadow lies.

The cloud-like rocks, the rock-like clouds,

Dissolved in glory float,

And, midway of the radiant flood,

Hangs silently the boat.

The sea is but another sky,

The sky a sea as well,

And which is earth, and which the heavens,
The eye can scarcely tell.

So when for us life's evening hour
Soft passing shall descend,
May glory, born of earth and heaven,
The earth and heavens blend;

Flooded with peace the spirit float,
With silent rapture glow,

Till where earth ends and heaven begins

The soul shall scarcely know.

SAMUEL Longfellow.

CALM.

IS a dull, sullen day,

'TIS

the gray beach o'er

In rippling curves the ebbing ocean flows;

Along each tiny crest that nears the shore

A line of soft green shadow rises, glides, and goes.

The tide recedes, the flat smooth beach grows bare,
More faint the low sweet plashing on my ears,
Yet still I watch the dimpling shadows fair,
As each is born, glides, pauses, disappears.

What channel needs our faith, except the eyes
God leaves no spot of earth unglorified;
Profuse and wasteful, lovelinesses rise;

New beauties dawn before the old have died.

?

Trust thou thy joys in keeping of the Power

Who holds these changing shadows in His hand; Believe and live, and know that hour by hour

Will ripple newer beauty to thy strand.

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.

As

THE FOREST GLADE.

S one dark morn I trod a forest glade, A sunbeam entered at the further end And ran to meet me thro' the yielding shade, As one who in the distance sees a friend, And, smiling, hurries to him; but mine eyes, Bewildered by the change from dark to bright, Received the greeting with a quick surprise At first, and then with tears of pure delight; For sad my thoughts had been, - the tempest's

wrath

Had gloomed the night, and made the morrow grey;
That heavenly guidance humble sorrow hath,
Had turned my feet into that forest-way,

Just when His morning-light came down the path,
Among the lonely woods at early day.

To the peace that passeth knowing,
And the light that is not of day!

All alone on the hill-top!

Nothing but God and me,
And the spring-time's resurrection,
Far shinings of the sea,

The river's laugh in the valley,
Hills dreaming of their past;
And all things silently opening,
Opening into the Vast!

Eternities past and future
Seem clinging to all I see,
And things immortal cluster
Around my bended knee.

That pebble is older than Adam !
Secrets it hath to tell;

These rocks they cry out history,

Could I but listen well.

That pool knows the ocean-feeling
Of storm and moon-led tide;

The sun finds its East and West therein,
And the stars find room to glide.

That lichen's crinkled circle

Still creeps with the Life Divine, Where the Holy Spirit loitered

On its way to this face of mine,

On its way to the shining faces
Where angel-lives are led;
And I am the lichen's circle

That creeps with tiny tread.

I can hear these violets chorus

To the sky's benediction above:
And we all are together lying

On the bosom of Infinite Love.

I-I am a part of the poem,

Of its every sight and sound,
For my heart beats inward rhymings
To the Sabbath that lies around.

Oh, the peace at the heart of Nature!
Oh, the light that is not of day!
Why seek it afar for ever,

When it cannot be lifted away?

BLUE HILL, May 21, 1871.

W. C. GANNETT.

LINES

Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on re-visiting the banks of the Wye during a tour, July 13th, 1798.

FIVE years have past; five summers, with the

length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.