'Oh, green is the colour of faith and truth, And rose the colour of love and youth,

And brown of the fruitful clay.

Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young, And her bridal day shall come ere long,

And you shall know what the rocks and the streams And the whispering woodlands say.'

Guta's Song

HIGH among the lonely hills,
While I lay beside my sheep,
Rest came down and filled my soul,
From the everlasting deep.

Changeless march the stars above,
Changeless morn succeeds to even ;

Still the everlasting hills

Changeless watch the changeless heaven.

See the rivers, how they run,
Changeless toward a changeless sea;
All around is forethought sure,
Fixed will and stern decree.

Can the sailor move the main?
Will the potter heed the clay?
Mortal! where the spirit drives,
Thither must the wheels obey.

Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive:
Where thy path is, thou shalt go.
He who made the streams of time
Wafts thee down to weal or woe.

Sympathy

THOMAS ASHE

IS nature all so beautiful?

The human feeling makes it so : The sounds we love, the flowers we cull, Are hallow'd with man's joy or woe.

The little speedwell's tender blue
Is not so pure and delicate,
As is the simple wish in you
That will its tardy advent wait.

The breezy hush, the rustling change,
Of leaves that on the poplar shake,
Are not so sweet, or half so strange,
As flutter in your heart they make.

The tiny drops of dew, that shine
Upon the leaflets new and rare,
Are scarcely half so crystal-fine

As your delight to watch them there.

The wishing for the green of trees

Is fresher than the leaves that come : The blowing of a scented breeze

Is sweetest round a happy home.

The ripple of a tranquil bay,

The water-lisp in curve or creek, Are softest on the welcome day We trust to find some friend we seek.

O human men and women, all!

With human feelings, strange and fine! O hopes, O meanings mystical! O joy divine; O woe divine!

ELIZA COOK

They All Belong to Me

T

HERE are riches without measure
Scattered thickly o'er the land;

There are heaps and heaps of treasure,
Bright, beautiful, and grand;
There are forests, there are mountains,
There are meadows, there are rills,
Forming everlasting fountains

In the bosoms of the hills;

There are birds and there are flowers,

The fairest things that be—

And these great and joyful dowers,
Oh! 'they all belong to me.'

There are golden acres bending
In the light of harvest rays,
There are garland branches blending
With the breath of June's sweet days :
There are pasture grasses blowing
In the dewy, moorland shade,
There are herds of cattle lowing
In the midst of bloom and blade;
There are noble elms that quiver,
As the gale comes full and free,
There are alders by the river,
And they all belong to me.'

I care not who may reckon
The wheat piled up in sacks,
Nor who has power to beckon
The woodman with his axe;

I care not who hold leases

Of the upland or the dell, Nor who may count the fleeces

When the flocks are fit to sell.

While there's beauty none can barter
By the greensward and the tree :

Claim who will, by seal and charter, Yet 'they all belong to me.'

Ye cannot shut the tree in,
Ye cannot hide the hills,
Ye cannot wall the sea in,
Ye cannot choke the rills;
The corn will only nestle

In the broad arms of the sky,
The clover crop must wrestle
With the common wind, or die.
And while these stores of treasure
Are spread where I may see,
By God's high, bounteous pleasure,
'They all belong to me.'

What care I for the profit

The stricken stem may yield?

I have the shadow of it
While upright in the field.
What reck I of the riches

The mill stream gathers fast,
While I bask in shady niches,
And see the brook go past?
What reck I who has title

To the widest lands that be? They are mine, without requital, God gave them all to me.