MORNING.

THE light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object,— hill, and stream, and skies,—
Rejoice within th' encircling line to be;

'Tis day, the field is filled with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din,
The traveller with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently too within the breast,
Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,

Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,

Nor pilgrim lifts his staff, it is no day

To those who find on earth their place to stay.

NATURE.

THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call,
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them both great and small;
The flower that on the lovely hill-side grows
Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,

Shall be their lord as Adam was before;

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

11

CHANGE.

FATHER! there is no change to live with Thee,
Save that in Christ I grow from day to day,
In each new word I hear, each thing I see,
I but rejoicing hasten on the way;
The morning comes with blushes overspread,
And I new-wakened find a morn within;
And in its modest dawn around me shed,
Thou hear'st the prayer and the ascending hymn;
Hour follows hour, the lengthening shades descend,
Yet they could never reach as far as me,
Did not thy love thy kind protection lend,
That I a child might sleep awhile on Thee,
Till to the light restored by gentle sleep

With new-found zeal I might thy precepts keep.

THE POOR.

I WALK the streets and though not meanly drest,
Yet none so poor as can with me compare;
For none though weary call me into rest,
And though I hunger, none their substance share;
I ask not for my stay the broken reed,

That fails when most I want a friendly arm;

I cannot on the loaves and fishes feed

That want the blessing that they may not harm;

I only ask the living word to hear

From tongues that now but speak to utter death;
I thirst for one cool cup of water clear

But drink the riled stream of lying breath;
And wander on though in my Fatherland,

Yet hear no welcome voice and see no beckoning hand.

THE CLAY.

THOU shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own hand,
Thou form'st the spirit like the moulded clay;
For those who love Thee keep thy just command,
And in thine image grow as they obey;

New tints and forms with every hour they take
Whose life is fashioned by thy spirit's power;
The crimson dawn is round them when they wake,
And golden triumphs wait the evening hour;
The queenly-sceptred night their souls receives,
And spreads their pillows 'neath her sable tent;
Above them Sleep their palm with poppy weaves,
Sweet rest Thou hast to all who labor lent
That they may rise refreshed to light again
And with Thee gather in the whitening grain.