May match in wealth thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,

Nor wrinkled the lean brow

Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;

'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,

Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
The eyes thou givest me

Are in the heart, and heed not space or time:
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment

In the white lily's breezy tent,
His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass,

-

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind,-of waters blue
That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap, - and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee;

The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,
Who, from the dark old tree

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
And I, secure in childish piety,
Listened as if I heard an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears,

When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem

More sacredly of every human heart,

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. J. R. LOWELL.

AY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle,

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation!

Ye matin worshipers! who bending lowly

Before the uprisen sun - God's lidless eyeThrow from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high!

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create!

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned;

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply-
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder,
Its dome the sky.

There- as in solitude and shade I wander

Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod,

Awed by the silence, reverently ponder

The ways of God

Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

From loneliest nook.

Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor

"Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender,

Your lore sublime!

N

The heart that loved her. 'Tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings.

Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee; and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when the mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms;
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies: oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ARTH gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in;
The priest has his fee who comes and shrives us;
We bargain for the graves we lie in;

At the Devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with the whole soul's tasking;
'Tis heaven alone that is given away,
'Tis only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer,
June may be had by the poorest comer.

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

"Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
"Tis the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.