That but for this our souls were free, And but for that our lives were blest; That in some season yet to be

Our cares will leave us time to rest.

Whene'er we groan with ache or pain,
Some common ailment of the race,
Though doctors think the matter plain,
That ours is " a peculiar case."

That when like babes with fingers burned
We count one bitter maxim more,
Our lesson all the world has learned,
And men are wiser than before.

That when we sob o'er fancied woes,
The angels hovering overhead
Count every pitying drop that flows
And love us for the tears we shed.

That when we stand with tearless eye
And turn the beggar from our door,
They still approve us when we sigh,

"Ah, had I but one thousand more!"

Though temples crowd the crumbled brink

O'erhanging truth's eternal flow,

Their tablets bold with what we think,

Their echoes dumb to what we know ;

That one unquestioned text we read,
All doubt beyond, all fear above,
Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed

Can burn or blot it: GOD IS LOVE!

SPRING HAS COME.

INTRA MUROS.

THE sunbeams, lost for half a year,

Slant through my pane their morning rays;

For dry northwesters cold and clear,

The east blows in its thin blue haze.

And first the snowdrop's bells are seen,
Then close against the sheltering wall

The tulip's horn of dusky green,

The peony's dark unfolding ball.

The golden-chaliced crocus burns ;
The long narcissus-blades appear;
The cone-beaked hyacinth returns
To light her blue-flamed chandelier.

The willow's whistling lashes, wrung

By the wild winds of gusty March, With sallow leaflets lightly strung, Are swaying by the tufted larch.

The elms have robed their slender spray With full-blown flower and embryo leaf; Wide o'er the clasping arch of day

Soars like a cloud their hoary chief.

See the proud tulip's flaunting cup,
That flames in glory for an hour,

Behold it withering, — then look

up,

How meek the forest monarch's flower!

When wake the violets, Winter dies;

When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near;

When lilacs blossom, Summer cries,

"Bud, little roses! Spring is here!"

The windows blush with fresh bouquets,
Cut with the May-dew on their lips;
The radish all its bloom displays,

Pink as Aurora's finger-tips.

Nor less the flood of light that showers

On beauty's changed corolla-shades, – The walks are gay as bridal bowers

With rows of many-petalled maids.

The scarlet shell-fish click and clash
In the blue barrow where they slide;
The horseman, proud of streak and splash,
Creeps homeward from his morning ride.

Here comes the dealer's awkward string, With neck in rope and tail in knot, Rough colts, with careless country-swing, In lazy walk or slouching trot.

-Wild filly from the mountain-side, Doomed to the close and chafing thills, Lend me thy long, untiring stride

To seek with thee thy western hills!

I hear the whispering voice of Spring,
The thrush's trill, the robin's cry,
Like some poor bird with prisone、 wing

That sits and sings, but longs to fly.