And makes the body's dark and narrow grate The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate. J. R. LOWELL.

A SONG AGAINST SINGING.

TO E. J. H.

THEY bid me sing to thee

Thou golden-haired and silver-voiced child-
With lips by no worse sigh than sleep's defiled-
With eyes unknowing how tears dim the sight,
And feet all trembling at the new delight
Treaders of earth to be!

Ah no the lark may bring

A song to thee from out the morning cloud,

The merry river from its lilies bowed,

The brisk rain from the trees, the lucky wind

That half doth make its music, half doth find— I may not sing.

But

How could I think it right,

New-comer on our earth as, Sweet, thou art,
To bring a verse from out an human heart
Made heavy with accumulated tears,
And cross with such amount of weary years
Thy day-sum of delight?

Even if the verse were said,

Thou, who wouldst clasp thy tiny hands to hear
The wind or rain, gay bird or river clear,
Wouldst at that sound of sad humanities,
Upturn thy bright uncomprehending eyes
And bid me play instead.

Therefore no song of mine

But prayer in place of singing; prayer that would
Commend thee to the new-creating God

Whose gift is childhood's heart without its stain
Of weakness, ignorance, and changing vain-
That gift of God be thine!

So wilt thou aye be young,

In lovelier childhood than thy shining brow
And pretty winning accents make thee now:
Yea, sweeter than this scarce articulate sound

66

(How sweet!) of " Father," Mother," shall be

found

The "ABBA" on thy tongue.

And so, as years shall chase

Earth's other shadows, thou wilt less resemble
Thy fellows of the earth who toil and tremble,
Than him thou seest not, thine angel bold
Yet meek, whose ever-lifted eyes behold

The Ever-loving's face.

E. B. BROWNING.

LOVE ON EARTH.

WHAT wonder man should fail to stay
A nursling wafted from above,
The growth celestial come astray,

That tender growth whose name is Love.

It is as if high winds in heaven

Had shaken the celestial trees,

And to this earth below had given

Some feathered seeds from one of these.

O perfect love that 'dureth long!

Dear growth, that shaded by the palms, And breathed on by the angels' song, Blooms on in Heaven's eternal calms !

How great the task to guard thee here, Where wind is rough and frost is keen, And all the ground with doubt and fear Is chequered, birth and death between!

Space is against thee-it can part:

Time is against thee-it can chill; Words they but render half the heart; Deeds-they are poor to our rich will. JEAN INGELOW.

THE REVELATION.

AN idle poet, here and there,

Looks round him, but, for all the rest,

The world, unfathomably fair,

Is duller than a witling's jest.

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;
They lift their heavy lids and look ;
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach
They read with joy, then shut the book.

And some give thanks, and some blaspheme,
And most forget: but, either way,
That, and the Child's unheeded dream,

Is all the light of all their day.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

Tyme tryeth troth

Peace.

THE PEACE OF GOD.

E ask for Peace, O Lord!

Thy children ask Thy Peace;
Not what the world calls rest,
That toil and care should cease,

That through bright sunny hours
Calm Life should fleet away,
And tranquil night should fade,
In smiling day ;-

It is not for such Peace that we would pray.

We ask for Peace, O Lord!

Yet not to stand secure,

Girt round with iron Pride,

Contented to endure: