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On a Beautiful Day.

The ship's white sail glides onward far away,
Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife.

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.

On a Beautiful Day.

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.

So might in many hearts be kindled then

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The lambent fire of faith,—not rashly strong,― So might be taught to souls of doubtful men

Thy tranquil bliss, thy love's divinest song.

In One, who walked on earth a man of woe, Was holier peace than e'en this hour inspires; From him to me let inward quiet flow,

And give the might my failing will requires.

So this great All around, so He, and Thou,

The central source and awful bound of things, May fill my heart with rest as deep as now

To land, and sea, and air, thy presence brings!

SHORT-LIVED FLOWERS.

I MADE a posy while the day ran by :
Here will I smell my`remnant out, and tie
My life within this band;

But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,

And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition,

Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
Yet sug'ring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers! sweetly your time ye

spent,

Fit while ye lived for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures :

I follow straight, without complaints or grief,
Since if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours!

DEAD LEAVES.

YE dainty mosses, lichens gray,
Pressed each to each in tender fold,
And peacefully thus, day by day,

Returning to your mould;

Brown leaves, that with aerial grace
Slip from your branch like birds a-wing,
Each leaving in the appointed place
Its bud of future spring;

If we, God's conscious creatures, knew
But half your faith in our decay,
We should not tremble as we do
When summoned clay to clay.

But with an equal patience sweet
We should put off this mortal gear,
In whatsoe'er new form is meet

Content to reappear;

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Dead Leaves.

Knowing each germ of life He gives Must have in him its source and rise, Being that of his being lives,

May change, but never dies.

Ye dead leaves, dropping soft and slow,
Ye mosses green and lichens fair,
Go to your graves, as I will go,
For God is also there.