The cottage roof, the burn, the spire, the graves,
All quaff the rest of seasons hushed as this,
And earth enjoys, while scarce its foliage waves,
The deep repose and harmony of bliss.

O Thou, the primal fount of life and peace,
Who shedd'st Thy breathing quiet all around,
In me command that pain and conflict cease,
And turn to music every jarring sound.

How longs each gulf within the weary soul
To taste the life of this benignant hour,
To be at one with Thine untroubled whole,
And in itself to know Thy hushing power.

Amid the joys of all, my grief revives,

And shadows thrown from me Thy sunshine mar; With this serene to-day dark memory strives, And draws its legions of dismay from far.

Prepare, O Truth Supreme! through shame and pain,

A heart attuned to Thy celestial calm;

Let not reflection's pangs be roused in vain,

But heal the wounded breast with searching balm.

So, firm in steadfast hope, in thought secure,
In full accord to all Thy world of joy,

May I be nerved to labors high and pure,

And Thou Thy child to do Thy work employ.

In one, who walked on earth a man of woe,

Was holier peace than even this hour inspires; From him to me let inward quiet flow,

And give the might my failing will requires.

So this great All around, so he, and Thou,
The central source and awful bound of things,
May fill my heart with rest as deep as now
To land, and sea, and air, Thy presence brings.

JOHN STERLING.

THE BIRD.

HITHER thou com'st.

The busie wind all night

Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing

Thy pillow was.

Many a sullen storm,

For which coarse man seems much the fitter born,

Rain'd on thy bed

And harmless head;

And now, as fresh and chearful as the light,

Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing
Unto that Providence whose unseen arm
Curb'd them, and cloath'd thee well and warm.
All things that be praise Him; and had
Their lesson taught them when first made.

HENRY VAUGHAN

MY DOVES.

"O Weisheit! Du red'st wie eine Taube!"- GOETHE.

Y

My little doves have left a nest

Upon an Indian tree,

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest
Or motion from the sea;
For, ever there, the sea-winds go
With sunlit paces to and fro.

The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down,
And there my little doves did sit,
With feathers softly brown,

And glittering eyes that showed their right
To general Nature's deep delight.

And God them taught, at every close

Of murmuring waves beyond,
And green leaves round, to interpose
Their choral voices fond,
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.

Fit ministers! of living loves

Theirs hath the calmest fashion,
Their living voice the likest moves
To lifeless intonation,

The lovely monotone of springs,

And winds, and such insensate things.

My little doves were ta'en away
From that glad nest of theirs,
Across an ocean rolling gray,

And tempest-clouded airs.

My little doves, — who lately knew
The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison,

In mist and chillness pent,

With sudden upward look they listen
For sounds of past content, -

For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

The stir without the glow of passion,
The triumph of the mart,

The gold and silver as they clash on
Man's cold metallic heart,

The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,
These only sounds are heard instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean,
And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean,
(Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine,
Are fastened upwardly to mine!)

Soft falls their chant as on the nest

Beneath the sunny zone;

For love that stirred it in their breast

Has not aweary grown,

And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep.

And love, that keeps the music, fills
With pastoral memories ;
All echoings from out the hills,
All droppings from the skies,
All flowings from the wave and wind,
Remembered in their chant, I find.

So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves! to move
Along the city-ways with heart
Assured by holy love,

And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.

'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream,
More hard, in Babel's street!
But if the soulless creatures deem
Their music not unmeet

For sunless walls, let us begin,

Who wear immortal wings within!

To me, fair memories belong

Of scenes that used to bless,
For no regret, but present song,
And lasting thankfulness,
And very soon to break away,

Like types, in purer things than they.