Our Daily Paths.

149

No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast, While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet

past.

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back,

And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track;

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and

mirth,

And weigh our burdened spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!

A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field!
A sweeter by the birds of heaven-which tell us, in their

flight,

Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?

Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of

peace,

And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies,

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the

skies!

150

The Water-Lily.

O

THE WATER-LILY.

H! beautiful thou art,

Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.

Bright lily of the wave!

Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave
Dwelt in thy cell:

Lifting alike thy head

Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower,

The gentle and the firm! thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower?

Oh! love is most like thee,

The love of woman! quivering to the blast
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast,
Midst life's dark sea.

And faith-oh, is not faith

Like thee, too, lily! springing into light,
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath?

The Hour of Prayer.

Yes! linked with such high thought,
Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie;
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought-

Something yet more divine

Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed,
As from a shrine.

151

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

"Pregar, pregar, pregar,

Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?”—Alfieri.

"HILD, amidst the flowers at play,

CH

While the red light fades away;

Mother, with thine earnest eye

Ever following silently;

Father, by the breeze of eve

Called thy harvest-work to leave-
Pray: ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor on the darkening sea--
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

152

The Wakening.

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,

Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

H

THE WAKENING.

WOW many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh, well may their hearts rejoice!-
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice:
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

The Forsaken Hearth.

And some, in the gloomy convict cell,

To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the din from the city borne,
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this checkered earth:
Each unto light hath a daily birth;
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awaken us all:
One!--but to severed and distant dooms,
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs ?

153

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.

"Was mir fehlt?-Mir fehlt ja alles,

Bin so ganz verlassen hier!"-TYROLESE MELODY.

'HE Hearth, the Hearth is desolate! the fire is quenched

THE

Tand gone

That into happy children's eyes once brightly laughing

shone;

The place where mirth and music met is hushed through

day and night.

Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made

light!