A PRAYER.

Он, when my hour is come, if so Thou wilt,
Let the sweet blossoms of the bough of love
Hang o'er my bed. But, howsoe'er it be,
Thro' the night watches, till the birds awake
Their sad importunate music, till the morn
Pale on the pane, oh, let me wait for God!
Gently, my Saviour! stand beside the door;
Gently, my Saviour! through the lattice glide;
Dip my life's leaves, adust with thought and care,
In sacramental dews, and make them gold.
Rest over me in love, O piercèd One!
Smile on me sadly through my mist of sin,
Smile on me sweetly from Thy crown of thorns.
As the dawn looketh on the great dark hills,
As the hills dawn-touch'd on the great dark sea,
Dawn on my heart's great darkness, Prince of Peace!

WAVES, WAVES, WAVES.

WAVES, waves, waves,

Graceful arches lit with night's pale gold,
Boom like thunder thro' the mountain roll'd;
Hiss, and make their music manifold,
Sing, and work for God along the strand.

Leaves, leaves, leaves,

Beautified by Autumn's withering breath;
Ivory skeletons, carven fair by death,
Float and drift at a sublime command.

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,

Beating wavelike on the mind's strange shore, Rustling leaf-like through it evermore—

Oh that they might follow God's good hand!

BELOW AND ABOVE.

Down below, the wild November whistling,
Thro' the beech's dome of burning red,
And the Autumn sprinkling penitential
Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head.

Down below, a pall of airy purple

Darkly hanging from the mountain side, And the sunset from his eyebrow staring O'er the long roll of the leaden tide.

Up above, the tree with leaf unfading
By the everlasting river's brink,

And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin
Never yet the sun was known to sink.

Down below, the white wings of the sea-bird,
Dash'd across the furrows dark with mould,
Flitting like the memories of our childhood
Through the trees now waxen pale and old.

Down below, imaginations quivering

Through our human spirits like the wind, Thoughts that toss like leaves about the woodland, Hopes like sea-birds flash'd across the mind.

Up above, the host no man can number,
In white robes, a palm in every hand,
Each some work sublime for ever working
In the spacious tracts of that great land.

Up above, the thoughts that know not anguish, Tender care, sweet love for us below,

Noble pity free from anxious terror,

Larger love without a touch of woe.

Down below, a sad mysterious music,

Wailing through the woods, and on the shore; Burden'd with a grand majestic secret That keeps sweeping from us evermore.

Up above, a music that entwineth

With eternal threads of golden sound The great poem of this strange existence,

All whose wondrous meaning has been found.

Down below, the church to whose poor window
Glory by the autumnal trees is lent,
And a knot of worshippers in mourning,
Missing some one at the Sacrament.

Up above, the burst of Hallelujah,
And (without the sacramental mist
Wrapt around us like a sunlit halo)
The great vision of the face of Christ.

Down below, cold sunlight on the tombstones And the green wet turf with faded flowersWinter roses, once like young hopes burning,

Now beneath the ivy dripp'd with showers.

And the new-made grave within the churchyard, And the white cap on that young face pale, And the watcher, ever as it dusketh,

Rocking to and fro with that long wail.

Up above, a crown'd and happy spirit,
Like an infant in the eternal years,
Who shall grow in love and light for ever,
Order'd in his place among his peers.

O the sobbing of the winds of Autumn,
And the sunset streak of stormy gold,
And the poor heart thinking in the churchyard,
"Night is coming, and the grave is cold"!

O the pale and plash'd and sodden'd roses,
And the desolate heart that grave above,
And the white cap shaking as it darkens
Round that shrine of memory and love!

O the rest for ever, and the rapture,

And the hand that wipes the tears away, And the golden homes beyond the sunset,

And the hope that watches o'er the clay !

All Saints' Day, 1857.