And of the home, of the dear old home,

With its brown and rose-bound wall, Where we fancied death could never come I thought of it more than of all.

Each childish play-ground memory claims,
Telling me here, and thus,

We called to the echoes by their names,
Till we made them answer us.

Thank God, when other power decays,
And other pleasures die,

We still may set our dark to-days
In the light of days gone by.

A SEA SONG.

COME, make for me a little song -
'Twas so a spirit said to me
And make it just four verses long,
And make it sweet as it can be,
And make it all about the sea.

Sing me about the wild waste shore, Where, long and long ago, with me You watched the silver sails that bore The great, strong ships across the sea The blue, the bright, the boundless sea.

Sing me about the plans we planned:

How one of those good ships should be

SERMONS IN STONES.

My way to find some flowery land
Away beyond the misty sea,

Where, alway, you should live with me.

Sing, lastly, how our hearts were caught

Up into heaven, because that we
Knew not the flowery land we sought

Lay all beyond that other sea
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea.

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SERMONS IN STONES.

FLOWER of the deep red zone,

Rain the fine light about thee, near and far,
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star
Holdeth all heaven, alone,

And with thy wondrous glory make men see
His greater glory who did fashion thee!

Sing, little goldfinch, sing!

Make the rough billows lift their curly ears
And listen, fill the violets' eyes with tears,
Make the green leaves to swing

As in a dance, when thou dost hie along,
Showing the sweetness whence thou get'st thy song.

O daisies of the hills,

When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow. Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show White o'er the daffodils!

Yea, shadow forth through your excelling grace
With whom ye have held counsel face to face.

Fill fuller our desire,

Gay grasses; trick your lowly stems with green,
And wear your splendors even as a queen
Weareth her soft attire.

Unfold the cunning mystery of design

That combs out all your skirts to ribbons fine.

And O my heart, my heart,

Be careful to go strewing in and out

Thy way with good deeds, lest it come about
That when thou shalt depart,

No low lamenting tongue be found to say,
The world is poorer since thou went'st away!

Thou shouldst not idly beat,

While beauty draweth good men's thoughts to prayer Even as the bird's wing draweth out the air,

But make so fair and sweet

Thy house of clay, some dusk shall spread about, When death unlocks the door and lets thee out.

MY PICTURE.

Ан, how the eye on the picture stops
Where the lights of memory shine!
My friend, to thee I will leave the sea,
If only this be mine,

For the thought of the breeze in the tops of the trees
Stirs my blood like wine!

MY PICTURE.

I will leave the sea and leave the ships,
And the light-house, taper and tall,
The bar so low, whence the fishers go,
And the fishers' wives and all,

If thou wilt agree to leave to me
This picture for my wall.

I leave thee all the palaces,

.

With their turrets in the sky –

The hunting-grounds, the hawks and hounds

They please nor ear nor eye;

But the sturdy strokes on the sides o' the oaks
Make my pulses fly.

The old cathedral, filling all

The street with its shadow brown, The organ grand, and the choiring band,

And the priest with his shaven crown ; 'Tis the wail of the hymn in the wild-wood dim, That bends and bows me down.

The shepherd.piping to his flock
In the merry month of the May,

The lady fair with the golden hair,

And the knight so gallant and gay — For the wood so drear that is pictured here, I give them all away.

I give the cities and give the sea,
The ships and the bar so low,
And fishers and wives whose dreary lives
Speak from the canvas so ;

And for all of these I must have the trees
The trees on the hills of snow!

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And shall we be agreed, my friend?

Shall it stand as I have said?

For the sake of the shade wherein I played,
And for the sake of my dead,

That lie so low on the hills of snow,
Shall it be as I have said?

MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS.

MORN on the mountains! streaks of roseate light
Up the high east athwart the shadows run;
The last low star fades softly out of sight,
And the gray mists go forth to meet the sun.

And now from every sheltering shrub and vine,
And thicket wild with many a tangled spray,
And from the birch and elm and rough-browed pine,
The birds begin to serenade the day.

And now the cock his sleepy harem thrills

With clarion calls, and down the flowery dells;

And from their mossy hollows in the hills
The sheep have started all their tinkling bells.

Lo, the great sun! and nature everywhere
Is all alive, and sweet as she can be ;
A thousand happy sounds are in the air,
A thousand by the rivers and the sea.

The dipping oar, the boatman's cheerful horn,
The well-sweep, creaking in its rise and fall;