I only know I cannot drift
Beyond his love and care,

O brothers! if my faith is vain,
If hopes like these betray,
Pray for me, that my feet may gain
The sure and safer way.

THE GOSPEL.

From Miriam.

Nor doth it lessen what he taught,
Or make the Gospel Jesus brought
Less precious, that his lips re-told,
Some portion of that truth of old;
Denying not the proven seers—
The tested wisdom of the years ;
Confirming with his own impress
The common law of righteousness.

We search the world for truth; we cull
The good, the pure, the beautiful,
From graven stone and written scroll,
From all old flower-fields of the soul;
And, weary seekers of the best,
We come back laden from our quest,
To find that all the sages said
Is in the Book our mothers read;
And all our treasure of old thought
In his harmonious fulness wrought,
Who gathers in one sheaf complete
The scattered blades of God's sown wheat.

From SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.
From-At Port Royal.

O praise and thank! The Lord, He comes
To set the people free;

And Massa thinks it Day of Doom,
And we of Jubilee. . .

We prayed the Lord,-He gave us signs,
That some day we'd be free;—
The north-wind told it to the pines,
The wild duck to the sea.

We think it when the church bell rings,
We dream it in the dreams;
The rice-bird means it when he sings,
The eagle when he screams.
And now He opens every door,
And's thrown away the key;'

He thinks we loved him so before-
We love him better free! ..

Her air, her smile, her motions told
Of womanly completness :
A music as of household songs

Was in her voice of sweetness.

An inborn grace that nothing lacked

Of culture or appliance,

The warmth of genial courtesy,

The calm of self-reliance.

Flowers spring to blossom where she walks

The careful ways of duty;

Our hard, stiff lines of life with her
Are flowing curves of beauty.

Our homes are cheerier for her sake,
Our door-yards brighter blooming,

And all about, the social air

Is sweeter for her coming.

Unspoken homilies of peace
Her daily life is preaching;
The still refreshment of the dew

Is her unconscious teaching.

Her presence lends its warmth and health.
To all who come before it ;
If woman lost us Eden, such
As she alone restore it. . .

From GONE.

The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew,

And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed,
Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look;

We read her face, as one who reads
A true and holy book. . .

We miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;
We pause beside her door to hear

Once more her sweet "good night."...

Fold her, O Father! in thine arms,

And let her henceforth be

A messenger of love between

Our human hearts and Thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,

And her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in Goodness strong. . .

PSALM.

I mourn no more my vanished years;
My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear;

But, grateful, take the good I find,-
The best of now and here.
I break my pilgrim staff,-I lay
Aside the toiling oar;

The Angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told ...
And care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast,
In purple distance fair;
And all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.

From SEED-TIME AND HARVEST.

And were this life the utmost span,
The only end and aim of man,
Better the toil of fields like these,
Than waking dream and slothful ease.

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

TRANSLATION FROM GOETHE.

Not so idle as I seemed!

Know ye, then, of what I dreamed?
I in purer realms was flying,
Only left my bundle lying.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

A FABLE FOR CRITICS.

On Theodore Parker.

Every word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced
In the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest . .
His periods fall on you, stroke after stroke,
Like the blows of a lumberer felling an oak.

On Willis.

As tender as Fletcher, as witty as Beaumont,
His best things are done in the flush of the moment.

Nature fits all her children with something to do;
He who would write and can't write, can surely
review.

From FOR AN AUTOGRAPH.

Though old the thought, and oft exprest,
'Tis his at last who says it best

Not failure, but low aim, is crime . . .