The spirits of stars, the spirits of waves and seas,
The spirits of sunset-clouds, the spirits of trees,
Inspire the poet's song.
He passes rapidly from sphere to sphere:
The mountain-thunder now enthrals his ear;
 Next with the sea-wind's harp he dallies long.

The dead hosts, myriads who have passed away,
Are marshalled and divided. Some hosts sway
The stormy purplest seas:
Others, far inland in the forest-nooks,
Rule only flowers and birds and rippling brooks
And the thyme-scented breeze.

O my soul! what means this sadness?
Wherefore art thou thus cast down?
Let thy griefs be turn'd to gladness,
Bid thy restless fears be gone;
Look to Jesus,
And rejoice in him alone.

Though ten thousand ills beset thee,
From without and from within;
Jesus saith, he'll ne'er forget thee,
He will rescue thee from sin;
He is faithful,
He the work will soon begin.

Though distresses now attend thee,
Though thou tread'st a thorny road,
His right hand will still defend thee,
Soon he'll bring thee home to God;

Have faith in truth. The generations pass:
The centuries wither like sun-stricken grass:
The very stars are doomed:
Yet never one true word shall pass away.
The songs of David thrill our hearts to-day;
His soul is disentombed.

His words move English hearts.—The words of Paul
Electrify and aid and lift us all
In our far Northern land.
No true word ever passes,—no Ideal.
Is any word of Christ to-day less real
Or parable less grand?

Words spoken by blue calm Gennesaret
Are heard to-day where ceaseless wild waves fret

To MIRA.

In the Manner of T IBULLUS .

Why, M IRA ! why this useless waste of time?
To round your nails with artificial care,
To smear your lovely locks with fulsome grime,
And add false ringlets to your glossy hair?

The irksome task of meditating dress,
Each sacrifice to fashion's labour lost;
The more you strive to please, you please the less,
— When unadorned, then adorn'd the most. —

Let the stale virgin, with cosmetic art,
To wonted bloom the faded cheek restore;
In gorgeous garments strive to gain a heart,

Father of all the human race! —
The white or color'd, bond or free —
Thanks for thy gifts of heav'nly grace,
Vouchsaf'd through Jesus Christ to me.

'Tis this, mid ev'ry cruel wrong,
Has borne my sinking spirits up,
Made sorrow joyful — weakness strong,
And sweeten'd Slavery's bitter cup.

Hath not a Savior's dying hour
Made e'n the yoke of thraldom light?
Hath not thy Holy Spirit's pow'r,
Made bondage freedom — darkness bright?

Thanks, then, O Father! for the gift,
Thou in thy Son to me hath giv'n;

We shall survey our lives, when life is past,
With strange transfigured vision, — when at last
The whole before us gleams.
We shall say, " Here a victory was ours:
Here gathered we sweet wealth of passion's flowers:
Here love's eyes filled our dreams. "

Yes, all shall then be changed, and yet the same.
The fiery current of the sun's red flame
Shall still dart down the air:
The flowers shall lavish fragrance on the breeze,
And still Spring's kiss shall greet the lilac-trees
In London street and square.

And in that desert of void endless thought,
Like a white shining flower my love shall be;
A flower to bloom round and encourage me,
With tender petals marvellously wrought.
This gift, far rarer than all gifts I sought,
Shall be mine own: its utter purity
Shall make that desert like some grassy sea,
With lilies 'twixt the grass-blades twined and caught.

This one sweet flower amid the desert sands
Of hard fierce thought, a silver bloom, expands,
In token that one woman did not fear,
When all the other hearts of women failed,

I bear my lady unto other lands,
New spheres of thought, — through spirit-realms we fly:
As one who leads from under English sky
His bride to where dense tropic bloom expands,
Or shapes a home for her with thoughtful hands
Where through the groves Italian breezes sigh, —
Or 'neath the snowy glare of mountain high, —
Or 'mid the burning glare of Indian sands.

Yea, so, victorious, I would bear my lady,
From thought's first maiden regions, cool and shady,
Towards tropic lands of fiercer burning glee:

Ye strange fierce seas that listen to my song,
And all ye winds and mountains that rejoice
In unison with my uplifted voice,
And all ye streams that, one with me, are strong,
And all ye countless stars, a gold-crowned throng,
It is the last time, mark me, that I sing:
This summer breeze that trembles at my wing,
May eddy, unmolested, soon along.

For I am one with Beatrice: the pure
Sweet soul of her is part of me, and I
No longer, stricken into speech, endure
The lonely black abhorrence of the sky,

It came from gettin' 'eated, that was 'ow the thing begun,
And 'ackin' back to kennels from a ninety-minute run;
" I guess I've copped brownchitis, " says I to brother Jack,
An' then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back.

At night there came a sweatin' as left me deadly weak,
And my throat was sort of tickly an' it 'urt me for to speak;
An' then there came an 'ackin' cough as wouldn't leave alone,
An' then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone.

I never was a 'eavy weight. I scaled at seven four,