I will have hopes that cannot fade,
For flowers the valley yields;

I will have humble thoughts instead
Of silent, dewy fields:

My spirit and my God shall be

My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea.

THE SEA-MEW.

How joyously the young sea-mew
Lay dreaming on the waters blue
Whereon our little bark had thrown
A little shade, the only one,
But shadows ever man pursue.

Familiar with the waves and free
As if their own white foam were he,
His heart upon the heart of ocean
Lay learning all its mystic motion,
And throbbing to the throbbing sea.

And such a brightness in his eye
As if the ocean and the sky
Within him had lit up and nurst
A soul God gave him not at first,
To comprehend their majesty.

We were not cruel, yet did sunder

His white wing from the blue waves under,
And bound it, while his fearless eyes

Shone up to ours in calm surprise,
As deeming us some ocean wonder.

We bore our ocean bird unto
A grassy place where he might view

The flowers that curtsey to the bees,
The waving of the tall green trees,
The falling of the silver dew.

But flowers of earth were pale to him
Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim;
And when earth's dew around him lay
He thought of ocean's winged spray,
And his eye waxed sad and dim.

The green trees round him only made
A prison with their darksome shade ;
And dropped his wing, and mourned he
For his own boundless glittering sea-
Albeit he knew not they could fade.

Then One her gladsome face did bring,
Her gentle voice's murmuring,

In ocean's stead his heart to move

And teach him what was human love: He thought it a strange mournful thing.

He lay down in his grief to die,
(First looking to the sea-like sky
That hath no waves) because, alas !
Our human touch did on him pass,
And with our touch, our agony.

THE SLEEP.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace surpassing this-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep"?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows?—
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

"Sleep soft, beloved! we sometimes say Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep :
But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices !
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap :

More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man

Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard—
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,

Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth His beloved, sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall !
He giveth His beloved, sleep."

COWPER'S GRAVE.

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying;

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their

praying:

Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish :

Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless

singing!

O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was

clinging!

O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths

beguiling,

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,

How discord on the music fell and darkness on the

glory,

And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face because so brokenhearted,

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adora

tion;

Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken, Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him,

With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him,

Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him,

But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him ;

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses

As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences: