LXX.

Springs the linden-tree as greenly,
Stroked with light adown its rind;

And the ivy-leaves serenely

Each in either entertwined;

And the rose-trees at the doorway, they have neither grown nor pined.

LXXI.

From those overblown faint roses

Not a leaf appeareth shed,

And that little bud discloses

Not a thorn's-breadth more of red

For the winters and the summers which have passed

But

me overhead.

LXXII.

And that music overfloweth,

Sudden sweet, the sylvan eaves:

Thrush or nightingale-who knoweth?

Fay or Faunus-who believes ?

my heart still trembles in me to the trembling of

the leaves.

LXXIII.

Is the bower lost, then? who sayeth

That the bower indeed is lost?

Hark! my spirit in it prayeth

Through the sunshine and the frost,-

And the prayer preserves it greenly, to the last and

uttermost.

In God's Eden-land unknown,

With an angel at the doorway,

White with gazing at His Throne;

And a saint's voice in the palm-trees, singing-' All is lost . . . and won!'

A SONG AGAINST SINGING.

TO E. J. H.

I.

THEY bid me sing to thee,

Thou golden-haired and silver-voiced childWith lips by no worse sigh than sleep's defiledWith eyes unknowing how tears dim the sight, And feet all trembling at the new delight

Treaders of earth to be!

II.

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 fiud,—
But I-I may not sing.

III.

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?

IV.

Even if the verse were said,

Thou, who wouldst clap 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.

V.

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!

VI.

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 (How sweet!) of father,' mother,' shall be found. The ABBA on thy tongue.

VII.

And so, as years shall chase

Each other's 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.