May, 1857.

WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER.

Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then?

Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

Were I a skilful painter, What should my painting be?

A tiny spring-bud peeping forth From a withered wintry tree.

The warm blue sky of summer Above the mountain snow, Whence water in an infant stream, Is trying how to flow.

The dim light of a beacon Upon a stormy sea, Where wild waves, ruled by wilder winds, Yet call themselves the free.

One sunbeam faintly gleaming Athwart a sullen cloud, Like dawning peace upon a brow In angry weeping bowed.

Morn climbing o'er the mountain, While the vale is full of night, And a wanderer, looking for the east, Rejoicing in the sight.

A taper burning dimly Amid the dawning grey, And a maiden lifting up her head, And lo, the coming day!

And thus, were I a painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then?

Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN.

If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, Pacing it wearily, wearily, From chapel to cell till day were done, Wearily, wearily, Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours, That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?

To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, Morning foul or fair; Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall-- Words, but hardly prayer; Vainly trying the thoughts to raise, Which, in the sunshine, would burst in praise.

Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, The G.o.d revealing, Turning thy face from the boundless boon, Painfully kneeling; Or in thy chamber's still solitude, Bending thy head o'er the legend rude.

I, in a cool and lonely nook, Gloomily, gloomily, Poring over some musty book, Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; Or on the parchment margin unrolled, Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.

Perchance in slow procession to meet, Wearily, wearily, In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street, Wearily, wearily; Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and then Heavily sinking to earth again.

Sunshine and air! warmness and spring!

Merrily, merrily!

Back to its cell each weary thing, Wearily, wearily!

And the heart so withered, and dry, and old, Most at home in the cloister cold.

Thou on thy knees at the vespers' call, Wearily, wearily; I looking up on the darkening wall, Wearily, wearily; The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, Listless and dead to thee and me!

Then to the lone couch at death of day, Wearily, wearily; Rising at midnight again to pray, Wearily, wearily; And if through the dark those eyes looked in, Sending them far as a thought of sin.

And then, when thy spirit was pa.s.sing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The earth-born dwelling returning to clay, Sleepily, sleepily; Over thee held the crucified Best, But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.

And when my spirit was pa.s.sing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The grey head lying 'mong ashes grey, Sleepily, sleepily; No hovering angel-woman above, Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.

But now, beloved, thy hand in mine, Peacefully, peacefully; My arm around thee, my lips on thine, Lovingly, lovingly,-- Oh! is not a better thing to us given Than wearily going alone to heaven?

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.

A quiet heart, submissive, meek, Father do thou bestow; Which more than granted will not seek To have, or give, or know.

Each green hill then will hold its gift Forth to my joying eyes; The mountains blue will then uplift My spirit to the skies.

The falling water then will sound As if for me alone; Nay, will not blessing more abound That many hear its tone?

The trees their murmuring forth will send, The birds send forth their song; The waving gra.s.s its tribute lend, Sweet music to prolong.

The water-lily's shining cup, The trumpet of the bee, The thousand odours floating up, The many-shaded sea;

The rising sun's imprinted tread Upon the eastward waves; The gold and blue clouds over head; The weed from far sea-caves;

All lovely things from south to north, All harmonies that be, Each will its soul of joy send forth To enter into me.

And thus the wide earth I shall hold, A perfect gift of thine; Richer by these, a thousandfold, Than if broad lands were mine.

THE HILLS.

Behind my father's house there lies A little gra.s.sy brae, Whose face my childhood's busy feet Ran often up in play, Whence on the chimneys I looked down In wonderment alway.

Around the house, where'er I turned, Great hills closed up the view; The town 'midst their converging roots Was clasped by rivers two; From one hill to another sprang The sky's great arch of blue.

Oh! how I loved to climb their sides, And in the heather lie; The bridle on my arm did hold The pony feeding by; Beneath, the silvery streams; above, The white clouds in the sky.

And now, in wandering about, Whene'er I see a hill, A childish feeling of delight Springs in my bosom still; And longings for the high unknown Follow and flow and fill.

For I am always climbing hills, And ever pa.s.sing on, Hoping on some high mountain peak To find my Father's throne; For hitherto I've only found His footsteps in the stone.

And in my wanderings I have met A spirit child like me, Who laid a trusting hand in mine, So fearlessly and free, That so together we have gone, Climbing continually.

Upfolded in a spirit bud, The child appeared in s.p.a.ce, Not born amid the silent hills, But in a busy place; And yet in every hill we see A strange, familiar face.

For they are near our common home; And so in trust we go, Climbing and climbing on and on, Whither we do not know; Not waiting for the mournful dark, But for the dawning slow.

Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,-- A long way we have come!