Gray glistening o'er the bush, the spider lurks,
A close-crouch'd ball, out-darting as a hum

Tells its trapp'd prey, and looping quick its threads,
Chains into helplessness the buzzing wings.

The wood-tick taps its tiny muffled drum
To the shrill cricket-fife, and swelling loud,
The grasshopper its swelling bugle winds.
Those breaths of Nature, the light fluttering airs
Like gentle respirations, come and go,
Lift on its crimson stem the maple-leaf,
Displaying its white lining underneath,
And sprinkle from the tree-tops golden rain
Of sunshine on the velvet sward below.

Such nooks as this are common in the woods:
And all these sights and sounds the commonest
In Nature when she wears her summer prime.
Yet by them pass not lightly: to the wise
They tell the beauty and the harmony

Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made.
That His familiar earth and sky are full

Of His ineffable power and majesty;
That in the humble objects, seen too oft

To be regarded, is such wondrous grace,

The art of man is vain to imitate;

That the low flower our careless foot treads down

Is a rich shrine of incense delicate,

And radiant beauty, and that God hath form'd
All, from the cloud-wreath'd mountain, to the grain
Of silver sand the bubbling spring casts up
With deepest forethought and severest care.
And thus these noteless lovely things are types
Of his perfection and divinity.

ROBERT BROWNING.

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA.

I WONDER do you feel to-day

As I have felt, since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalised me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path,) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.

Help me to hold it: first it left

The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed Took up the floating weft,

Where one small orange-cup amassed

Five beetles,-blind and green they grope

Among the honey-meal,-and last

Everywhere on the grassy slope

I traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,

An everlasting wash of air-
Rome's ghost since her decease.

Such life there, through such lengths of hours,

Such miracles performed in play,

Such primal naked forms of flowers,

Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers.

How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above.
How is it under our control

To love or not to love?

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA.

I would that you were all to me,

You that are just so much, no more— Nor yours, nor mine,-nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? what the core Of the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will,

See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill

At your soul's springs,-your part, my part In life, for good and ill.

No. I yearn upward-touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth,-I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak,—
Then the good minute goes.

Already how am I so far

Out of that minute?

Must I go

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,

Onward, whenever light winds blow,

Fixed by no friendly star?

Just when I seemed about to learn!

Where is the thread now? Off again!

The old trick! Only I discern—

Infinite passion and the pain of finite hearts that yearn.

EVELYN HOPE.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead;

Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think—
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name---
It was not her time to love: beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir

Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew;
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

Each was nought to each, must I be told?

We were fellow-mortals, nought beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love,-
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!