Within the forest's deepest shade,

Ten thousand depths aroundHome for each living thing is made That creepeth on the ground.

Home, Home! it is eternal love—
His presence, and His praise-
O'er all around, below, above,
Creation's boundless ways.

E'en in the poor defilèd heart,
The present home of sin,
God said, Let wickedness depart,
And We will dwell therein.

Blest Spirit! thou that home

prepare

Do thou make clean, secure,

Lest Love should seek his dwelling there, His home, nor find it pure.

Then when this earthly home shall fall,

As built on erring sands,

Me to that heavenly mansion call,
Prepared, not made with hands-

That home of love, and joy, and peace,
No sorrow in the breast,

From troubling where the wicked cease,

And where the weary rest.

COWPER'S GRAVE.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

It is a place where poets crown'd
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 pour'd 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,
Groan'd 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 broken-hearted,

He shall be strong to sanctify
The poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down

In meeker adoration;

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 sadness that is calm, not gloom,
I learn to think upon him;

With meekness that is gratefulness,

On God whose heaven hath won him-Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud

Towards His love to blind him;

But gently led the blind along

Where breath and bird could find him;

And wrought within his shatter'd brain

Such quick poetic senses,

As hills have language for, and stars,
Harmonious influences!

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The pulse of dew upon the

grass

His own did calmly number; And silent shadows from the trees

Fell o'er him like a slumber;

The very world, by God's constraint,
From falsehood's chill removing,
Its women and its men became

Beside him true and loving!

And timid hares were drawn from woods
To share his home caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes
With sylvan tendernesses.

But while in blindness he remain'd
Unconscious of the guiding,

And things provided came without
The sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth,
Though frenzy desolated—
Nor man nor nature satisfy,
When only God created!

Like a sick child that knoweth not
His mother while she blesses,
And droppeth on his burning brow
The coolness of her kisses;

That turns his fever'd eyes around

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'My mother! where's my mother?"

As if such tender words and looks

Could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart
He sees her bending o'er him-
Her face all pale from watchful love,
The unweary love she bore him!
Thus woke the poet from the dream
His live's long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic eyes
Which closed in death, to save him.

Thus?—oh, not thus! No type of earth
Could image that awaking,

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant
Of seraphs round him breaking-
Or felt the new immortal throb

Of soul from body parted;

But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My Saviour! not deserted!"

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when

The cross in darkness rested

Upon the Victim's hidden face,

No love was manifested?

What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er

The atoning drops averted

What tears have wash'd them from the soul

That one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate

From his own essence rather;
And Adam's sins have swept between
The righteous Son and Father.