I will not say that your mild deeps retain

A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain
Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd in vain ;
But I will rather say that you remain

A world above man's head, to let him see

How boundless might his soul's horizons be,
How vast, yet of what clear transparency.
How it were good to sink there, and breathe free.
How fair a lot to fill

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,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, —
The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

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
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

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,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud, black and swift, across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds

Stand out the white light-houses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach

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,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,

Nor flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong,

He scans me with a fearless eye;
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.

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
Comes forth from Thee, rejoicing earth and
air!

O

Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly shine,
And Thy great ocean slumbers everywhere.

The mountain ridge against the purple sky Stands clear and strong with darkened rocks and dells,

And cloudless brightness opens wide on high
A home aerial, where Thy presence dwells.

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,
All quaff the rest of seasons hushed as this,
And earth enjoys, while scarce its foliage waves,
The deep repose and harmony of bliss.

O Thou, the primal fount of life and peace,
Who shedd'st Thy breathing quiet all around,
In me command that pain and conflict cease,
And turn to music every jarring sound.

How longs each gulf within the weary soul
To taste the life of this benignant hour,
To be at one with Thine untroubled whole,
And in itself to know Thy hushing power.

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,
But heal the wounded breast with searching balm.

So, firm in steadfast hope, in thought secure,
In full accord to all Thy world of joy,
May I be nerved to labors high and pure,
And Thou Thy child to do Thy work employ.