210 ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed, in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,

With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency; Gathering, like incense round some dim-veiled shrine, About the Form, so mournfully divine!

Oh! let thine image, as e'en then it rose,
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,

Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of day-spring from on high.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

Could we but keep our spirits to that height,
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.

BYRON.

RETURN, my thoughts, come home!

Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep? And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep,

As birds the ocean foam?

Swifter than shooting star,

Swifter than lances of the northern light,

Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,

Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime,

Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,

And reeds are whispering of heroic themes,

By temples of old time:

Through the north's ancient halls,

Where banners thrill'd of yore, where harp strings

rung,

But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sung

Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim,

Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood,

And sometimes on the haunted solitude

Rises the pilgrim's hymn :

Or where some fountain lies,

With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleam

ing!

There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming

Of man's lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts, return!

Cares wait your presence in life's daily track,

And voices, not of music, call you back

Harsh voices, cold and stern!

Oh! no, return ye not!

Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be!

Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and

free,

O'er many a haunted spot.

Go, seek the martyr's grave,

Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast;

Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past,

Follow the wise and brave!

Go, visit cell and shrine !

Where woman hath endured !-through wrong,

through scorn,

Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne

By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death!

Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind,

Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find,

Where the storm sends no breath!

Higher, and yet more high!

Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would

lay

On your victorious wings-mount, mount!-Your

way

Is through eternity!