138

NATURAL PIETY.

Ye bind the deep with a secret zone,
The ocean is sealed, and the surge is stone,
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;
The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatched isle is the home of men ;
And mountains exult where the wave hath
been.

Ye build, ye build, but ye enter not in, Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin;

From the land of promise ye fade and die, Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary

eye;

As the kings of the cloud-crowned syramid,
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid;

Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main,

While the wonder and pride of your works

remain.

Mrs. Sigourney.

NATURAL PIETY.

A little boy in thoughtful mood,

Alone, a woodland path pursued,

NATURAL PIETY.

Beneath the evening's tranquil sky,

139

He thought not where, he knew not why. He watched the sunset fade away.

Leaving the hills with summits gray; He saw the first faint stars appear,

And the far river's sound came near.

The birds were hushed, the flowers were closed,

The kine along the ground reposed; All active life to gentle rest,

Sank down. as on a mother's breast.

All sounds, all sights, of earth and sky,
Came to his ear and to his eye,
Until from these absorbed, forgot

They were, and he perceived them not.

Though from his home and friends apart, No sense of fear disturbed his heart; Though round him were dark shadows thrown, He did not feel himself alone.

Touched by an influence and a power
He never felt until that hour,

The language of his eyes was meek,

And the warm tears were on his cheek.

140 LINES AMONG THE LEAVES.

He did not kneel, he did not pray,
No thought through utterance found its

way

His feelings could no language find-
For God was present in his mind.

Richard Howitt.

LINES AMONG THE LEAVES.

Have ye heard the west wind singing, where the summer trees are springing ?

Have ye counted o'er the many tunes it knows?

For the wide wing'd spirit rangeth, and its ballad metre changeth.

As it goes.

A plaintive wail it maketh when the willow's tress it shaketh,

Like new-born infant sighing in its sleep; And the branches, low and slender, bend to list the strain so tender,

Till they weep.

Another tale 'tis telling, where the clustered elm is swelling

With dancing joy, that seems to laugh out

LINES AMONG THE LEAVES 141

And the leaves, all bright and clapping, seem like human fingers snapping With delight.

The fitful key-note shifteth where the heavy oak uplifteth

Its diadem of acorns broad and high; And it chants with muffled roaring, like an eagle's wings in soaring

To the sky.

Another lay it giveth where the spiral poplar liveth,

Above the cresses, lily, flag, and rush; There it sings with hissing treble, like the foam upon the pebble,

In its gush.

A varied theme it utters where the glossy dateleaf flutters;

A loud and lightsome chant it yieldeth there,

And the quiet, listening dreamer, may believe that many a streamer Flaps the air.

It is sad and dreary hearing where the giant pine is rearing

His lonely head, like hearse-plume waved about,