THE PRESENCE.

I SIT within my room, and joy to find
That Thou who always lov'st, art with me here,
That I am never left by Thee behind,

But by thyself Thou keep'st me ever near;
The fire burns brighter when with Thee I look,
And seems a kinder servant sent to me;
With gladder heart I read thy holy book,
Because thou art the eyes by which I see;
This aged chair, that table, watch and door
Around in ready service ever wait;

Nor can I ask of Thee a menial more
To fill the measure of my large estate,
For Thou thyself, with all a father's care,
Where'er I turn, art ever with me there.

10

THE DEAD.

I SEE them, crowd on crowd they walk the earth
Dry leafless trees to autumn wind laid bare;
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would winter's rudeness dare
No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright ap-

pear;

Their hearts the living God have ceased to know Who gives the spring time to th' expectant year; They mimic life, as if from him to steal

His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;

They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel, That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak ; And in their show of life more dead they live Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.

I WAS SICK AND IN PRISON.

THOU hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow
Without a mate upon the river's bank;

Nor dost Thou on one flower the rain bestow,
But many a cup the glittering drops has drank;
The bird must sing to one who sings again,
Else would her note less welcome be to hear;
Nor hast Thou bid thy word descend in vain,

But soon some answering voice shall reach my ear;
Then shall the brotherhood of peace begin,

And the new song be raised that never dies,
That shall the soul from death and darkness win,
And burst the prison where the captive lies;
And one by one new-born shall join the strain,
Till earth restores her sons to heaven again.

THE VIOLET.

THOU tellest truths unspoken yet by man
By this thy lonely home and modest look;
For he has not the eyes such truths to scan,
Nor learns to read from such a lowly book;
With him it is not life firm-fixed to grow
Beneath the outspreading oaks and rising pines,
Content this humble lot of thine to know,
The nearest neighbor of the creeping vines;
Without fixed root he cannot trust like thee
The rain will know the appointed hour to fall,
But fears lest sun or shower may hurtful be,
And would delay or speed them with his call;
Nor trust like thee when wintry winds blow cold,
Whose shrinking form the withered leaves enfold.

THE HEART.

THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink,
Whose waters ever o'er the brim must well,
Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angels

think,

Or of its dæmon depths the tongue will tell; That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward stains While from within the tide forever flows; And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains The treacherous hand on such a task bestows; But ever bright its chrystal sides appear, While runs the current from its outlet pure; And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure, And bless the cup that cheers their fainting soul While through this parching waste they seek their heavenly goal.