"Nay, nay, I know them all too well, Each ridge, and peak, and dome; In that cloud-land, in one high dell, Nesteth my little home."

BETTER THINGS.

Better to smell a violet, Than sip the careless wine; Better to list one music tone, Than watch the jewels' shine.

Better to have the love of one, Than smiles like morning dew; Better to have a living seed Than flowers of every hue.

Better to feel a love within, Than be lovely to the sight; Better a homely tenderness Than beauty's wild delight.

Better to love than be beloved.

Though lonely all the day; Better the fountain in the heart, Than the fountain by the way.

Better a feeble love to G.o.d, Than for woman's love to pine; Better to have the making G.o.d Than the woman made divine.

Better be fed by mother's hand, Than eat alone at will; Better to trust in G.o.d, than say: My goods my storehouse fill.

Better to be a little wise Than learned overmuch; Better than high are lowly thoughts, For truthful thoughts are such.

Better than thrill a listening crowd, Sit at a wise man's feet; But better teach a child, than toil To make thyself complete.

Better to walk the realm unseen, Than watch the hour's event; Better the smile of G.o.d alway, Than the voice of men's consent.

Better to have a quiet grief Than a tumultuous joy; Better than manhood, age's face, If the heart be of a boy.

Better the thanks of one dear heart, Than a nation's voice of praise; Better the twilight ere the dawn, Than yesterday's mid-blaze.

Better a death when work is done, Than earth's most favoured birth; Better a child in G.o.d's great house Than the king of all the earth.

THE JOURNEY.

Hark, the rain is on my roof!

Every sound drops through the dark On my soul with dull reproof, Like a half-extinguished spark.

I! alas, how am I here, In the midnight and alone?

Caught within a net of fear!

All my dreams of beauty gone!

I will rise: I must go forth.

Better face the hideous night, Better dare the unseen north, Than be still without the light!

Black wind rushing round my brow, Sown with stinging points of rain!

Place or time I know not now-- I am here, and so is pain!

I will leave the sleeping street, Hie me forth on darker roads.

Ah! I cannot stay my feet, Onward, onward, something goads.

I will take the mountain path, Beard the storm within its den, Know the worst of this dim wrath, Vexing thus the souls of men.

Chasm 'neath chasm! rock piled on rock: Roots, and crumbling earth, and stones!

Hark, the torrent's thundering shock!

Hark, the swaying pine tree's groans!

Ah, I faint, I fall, I die!

Sink to nothingness away!-- Lo, a streak upon the sky!

Lo, the opening eye of day!

II.

Mountain heights that lift their snows O'er a valley green and low; And a winding path, that goes Guided by the river's flow; And a music rising ever, As of peace and low content, From the pebble-paven river As an odour upward sent.

And a sighing of the storm Far away amid the hills, Like the humming of a swarm That the summer forest fills; And a frequent fall of rain From a cloud with ragged weft; And a burst of wind amain From the mountain's sudden cleft.

Then a night that hath a moon, Staining all the cloudy white; Sinking with a soundless tune Deep into the spirit's night.

Then a morning clear and soft, Amber on the purple hills; Warm high day of summer, oft Cooled by wandering windy rills.

Joy to travel thus along, With the universe around!

I the centre of the throng; Every sight and every sound Speeding with its burden laden, Speeding homewards to my soul!

Mine the eye the stars are made in!

I the heart of all this whole!

III.

Hills retreat on either hand, Sinking down into the plain; Slowly through the level land Glides the river to the main.

What is that before me, white, Gleaming through the dusky air?

Dimmer in the gathering night; Still beheld, I know not where?

Is it but a chalky ridge, Bared by many a trodden mark?

Or a river-spanning bridge, Miles away into the dark?

Or the foremost leaping waves Of the everlasting sea, Where the Undivided laves Time with its eternity?

No, tis but an eye-made sight, In my brain a fancied gleam; Or a thousand things as white, Set in darkness, well might seem.

There it wavers, shines, is gone; What it is I cannot tell; When the morning star hath shone, I shall see and know it well.

Onward, onward through the night!

Matters it I cannot see?

I am moving in a might, Dwelling in the dark and me.

Up or down, or here or there, I can never be alone; My own being tells me where G.o.d is as the Father known.

IV.

Joy! O joy! the Eastern sea Answers to the Eastern sky; Wide and featured gloriously With swift billows bursting high.

Nearer, nearer, oh! the sheen On a thousand waves at once!