Soul and Body.

WHERE Wert thou, Soul, ere yet my body born
Became thy dwelling-place? Didst thou on earth,
Or in the clouds, await this body's birth?
Or by what chance upon that winter's morn
Didst thou this body find, a babe forlorn?

Didst thou in sorrow enter, or in mirth?
Or for a jest, perchance, to try its worth
Thou tookest flesh, ne'er from it to be torn?

Nay, Soul, I will not mock thee; well I know
Thou wert not on the earth, nor in the sky;
For with my body's growth thou too didst grow;
But with that body's death wilt thou too die?
I know not, and thou canst not tell me, so
In doubt we'll go together-thou and I.

A Pipe of Carved Olive-Wood.

I.

WITH flowers chased and filigree

Of leaves around the bowl and stem,
Across the seas 'twas brought for me
A present from Jerusalem;
Now on my mantel-shelf it lies,
The alien child of orient skies.

II.

Haply in Kedron's rocky dell,
Ere Saladin the host o'erthrew,

By steep Siloam's limpid well

This olive-wood erst drank the dew;
Or in far days that men forget
It graced, perchance, Mount Olivet.

III.

Nay, where the oaks of Mamre gleam Down that wide glen where Hebron lies,

And of past glory loves to dream

As from its tower the daylight dies,

There haply Rachel plucked the fruit
Where spread this olive's parent root.

IV.

When from the carven bowl arise

Thick clouds of incense round my head, Strange visions mount before mine eyesA resurrection of the dead

Of dynasties long past and gone,
Of empires lost and victories won.

V.

I see the creeds and systems pass
That shaped the world in years of yore;
They meet my gaze as in a glass,

They go, and they return no more;
Crude phantasms of the human mind
That thro' dark ages ruled mankind.

VI.

O antique world, so calm, so still!
What Pyramids of hope and fear
'Twas thine to build with wizard skill

While mute the Sphinx sat watching near

And Life and Death remained for thee

A dark, an unsolved mystery.

VII.

Not Cæsar and not Pharaoh now

In Egypt, or in Rome, abide ; Gone, gone for ever from each brow

The conqueror's wreath, the victor's pride Yet still the Night brings back the dawn To heath-clad hill and dewy lawn.

VIII.

And children where the lilies blow Are blithe amid the buds of May; And still the Hebrew maidens

go With fisher-lads at close of day Where gnarled olives glimmer yet By Jordan and Gennesaret.

The Beaten Track.

NAY, with no harshness name the simple soul
That still would cling to creeds that pass away;
That from the beaten footpath fears to stray,
And shrinks from those who wider views unroll:
All see a part of Truth and none the whole!
If it sufficeth them, then, happy they,
Who on that beaten footpath still can stay,
And from all wandering their steps control.

As he who lingers in low, sheltered spaces,

Nor mounts to danger on the mountain-side, In safety dwells where the still waters glide; So they in peace shall haunt life's hallowed places, Whose steadfast hearts in one belief abideWhose primal faith no tide of doubt effaces.