I will not say that your mild deeps retain A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain A world above man's head, to let him see How boundless might his soul's horizons be, Is left to each man still. MATTHEW Arnold V TO A WATERFOWL. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink There is a Power whose care Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows: reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright. WILLIAM C. BRYANT. THE SANDPIPER. ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry The wild waves reach their hands for it, Above our heads the sullen clouds Stand out the white light-houses high. I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He scans me with a fearless eye; Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My drift-wood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I? CELIA THAXTER HYMN OF A HERMIT. UNSEEN Spirit! now a calm divine O Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly shine, The mountain ridge against the purple sky Stands clear and strong with darkened rocks and dells, And cloudless brightness opens wide on high The chime of bells remote, the murmuring sea, The song of birds in whispering copse and wood, The distant voice of children's thoughtless glee, And maiden's song, are all one voice of good. Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play Of flash, and shadow, stirs like inward life; The ship's white sail glides onward far away, Unhaunted by a thought of storm or strife. Upon the narrow bridge of foot-worn plank, The peasant stops where swift the waters gleam, And broods as if his heart in silence drank More freshing draughts than that untainted stream The cottage roof, the burn, the spire, the graves, O Thou, the primal fount of life and peace, How longs each gulf within the weary soul Amid the joys of all, my grief revives, And shadows thrown from me Thy sunshine mar; With this serene to-day dark memory strives, And draws its legions of dismay from far. Prepare, O Truth Supreme! through shame and pain, A heart attuned to Thy celestial calm; Let not reflection's pangs be roused in vain, So, firm in steadfast hope, in thought secure, |