They tell of the level sea
And the wind rebukes their word.
I sing of the long and level plain
Which never a storm hath stirred.
I sing of the patient plain;
That drank of the sun and rain
A thousand years, by the burning spheres,
To nourish this wisp of grain.

I sing of the honest plain
Where nothing doth lie concealed:
Where never a branch doth raise her arm;
Or never a leaf her shield.
Where never a lordly pine
Breaks in on the endless line;
Or the silver flakes of a poplar takes

Hail to the brightness of Freedom's glad morning!
Join, all the earth! in an anthem of praise;
Day—joyful day—in its glory is dawning,
Light is dispensing its soul-cheering rays.
See, how 'tis gilding those isles of the ocean!
Hark to the echoing songs of their joy!
Brighter is burning the flame of devotion,
Music far sweeter the angels employ.

Thousands, long buried in deep degradation,
Rise to the sphere which their Maker assign'd;
Bearing glad triumph to God's free salvation,
Sent from above, by “good will to mankind.”

TO J. F. CLARKE APRIL 4, 1860

Who is the shepherd sent to lead,
 Through pastures green, the Master's sheep?
What guileless “Israelite indeed”
 The folded flock may watch and keep?

He who with manliest spirit joins
 The heart of gentlest human mould,
With burning light and girded loins,
 To guide the flock, or watch the fold;

True to all Truth the world denies,
 Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin;
Not always right in all men's eyes,
 But faithful to the light within;

Unaided! Then when I started, timorous,
there was no Mother, who might my knapsack fill
with bread for the day,
for one on the morrow away.

No kiss for me there was, and no tear did fall,
and no beloved hand on my shoulder lay,
its touch lingering there;
no sign of the cross, and no prayer.

Thou wert not near, and none saw me wretchedly
turn me away from all eyes; yet suddenly,
O Mother, heartbroke
that no one to my need awoke.

I, of myself, all alone and famishing

Deep in the night I hear, mid the querulous
trilling of crickets, and mid the murmuring
 of rain-swollen streamlets unseen,
 which flow in the shadow serene. . . .

Down in the hidden valley, where wander now
the fleet fire-flies, unseen in their loneliness …
 from hedges far distant or near
 a dog's muffled barking I hear.

Who, passing late there, through streets of solitude,
between the gloomy hedges of box-wood trees,
 awakened that dog in the night,
 with echoing footstep and light?

Let Fate, my Fortune, and my Stars conspire,
Jointly to pour on me their worst disgrace;
So I be gracious in your heavenly face,
I weigh not Fates, nor Stars, nor Fortune's ire.
'Tis not the influence of heaven's fire
Hath power to make me blessed in my race;
Nor in my happiness hath Fortune place,
Nor yet can Fate my poor life's date expire.
'Tis your fair eyes, my Stars, all bliss do give;
'Tis your disdain, my Fate, hath power to kill;
'Tis you, my Fortune, make me happy live,
Though Fortune, Fate, and Stars conspire mine ill.

As she is fair, so faithful I;
My service she, her grace I merit;
Her beauty doth my love inherit,
But grace she doth deny.
Oh, knows she not how much I love?
Or doth knowledge in her move
No small remorse?
For the guilt thereof must lie
Upon one of these of force,
Her ignorance, or cruelty.

As she is fair, so cruel she:
I sow true love, but reap disdaining;
Her pleasure springeth from my paining,
Which Pity's source should be.
Too well she knows how much I love,
Yet doth knowledge in her move

And beyond the Jordan Jesus saw again
(not far remote, His day was drawing nigh)
the lifeless meadow lands shorn of their grain.

The women stood about beneath the high
house portals crying loud: " O Prophet, hail! "
He had in mind the day that He should die.

He took His seat under a sheafing pale
of grain, and said: " Unless one hideth there
the seed in earth, the harvesting will fail. "

He had in mind the heavenly granaries fair:
and you, O children, round about Him played,
with arid stalks of grain in your brown hair.

I

No more then you recall those mornings fair
of marvel? Clouds seemed all things to enclose,
rosy and white, of peach and plum; an air

all hanging full of feathery tufts; or rose
or white, or both; the apple blossoms gleamed,
frail apricots, the pear, that hardy grows.

Such, neath the veiling of our tears, then seemed
that orchard, and, reflected there for days,
it held a heavenly light of dawn undreamed.

That dawn, you know, shed round us hopeful rays,

Fair is thy face, and great thy wit's perfection;
So fair, alas, so hard to be exprest,
That if my tired pen should never rest,
It should not blaze thy worth, but my affection:
Yet let me say, the Muses make election
Of your pure mind, there to erect their nest;
And that your face is such, a flint-hard breast
By force thereof without force feels subjection.
Witness mine ear, ravished when you it hears;
Witness mine eyes, ravished when you they see:
Beauty and virtue, witness eyes and ears,
In you, sweet Saint, have equal sovereignty.