Away from the vapour grey, That like a boding of ill Is blotting the morning gay, And gathers and darkens still!

Away from the stupid book!

For, like the fog's weary rest, With anger dull it fills each nook Of my aching and misty breast.

Over some shining sh.o.r.e, There hangeth a s.p.a.ce of blue; A parting 'mid thin clouds h.o.a.r Where the sunlight is falling through.

The glad waves are kissing the sh.o.r.e Rejoice, and tell it for ever; The boat glides on, while its oar Is flashing out of the river.

Oh to be there with thee!

Thou and I only, my love!

The sparkling, sands and the sea!

And the sunshine of G.o.d above!

MY EYES MAKE PICTURES.

"My eyes make pictures, when they are shut."

COLERIDGE.

Fair morn, I bring my greeting To lofty skies, and pale, Save where cloud-shreds are fleeting Before the driving gale, The weary branches tossing, Careless of autumn's grief, Shadow and sunlight crossing On each earth-spotted leaf.

I will escape their grieving; And so I close my eyes, And see the light boat heaving Where the billows fall and rise; I see the sunlight glancing Upon its silvery sail, Where a youth's wild heart is dancing, And a maiden growing pale.

And I am quietly pacing The smooth stones o'er and o'er, Where the merry waves are chasing Each other to the sh.o.r.e.

Words come to me while listening Where the rocks and waters meet, And the little sh.e.l.ls are glistening In sand-pools at my feet.

Away! the white sail gleaming!

Again I close my eyes, And the autumn light is streaming From pale blue cloudless skies; Upon the lone hill falling 'Mid the sound of heather-bells, Where the running stream is calling Unto the silent wells.

Along the pathway lonely, My horse and I move slow; No living thing, save only The home-returning crow.

And the moon, so large, is peering Up through the white cloud foam; And I am gladly nearing My father's house, my home.

As I were gently dreaming The solemn trees look out; The hills, the waters seeming In still sleep round about; And in my soul are ringing Tones of a spirit-lyre, As my beloved were singing Amid a sister-choir.

If peace were in my spirit, How oft I'd close my eyes, And all the earth inherit, And all the changeful skies!

Thus leave the sermon dreary, Thus leave the lonely hearth; No more a spirit weary-- A free one of the earth!

DEATH.

When, like a garment flung aside at night, This body lies, or sculpture of cold rest; When through its shaded windows comes no light, And the white hands are folded on its breast;

How will it be with Me, its tenant now?

How shall I feel when first I wander out?

How look on tears from loved eyes falling? How Look forth upon dim mysteries round about?

Shall I go forth, slow-floating like a mist, Over the city with its crowded walls?

Over the trees and meadows where I list?

Over the mountains and their ceaseless falls?

Over the red cliffs and fantastic rocks; Over the sea, far-down, fleeting away; White sea-birds shining, and the billowy shocks Heaving unheard their sh.o.r.e-besieging spray?

Or will a veil, o'er all material things Slow-falling; hide them from the spirit's sight; Even as the veil which the sun's radiance flings O'er stars that had been shining all the night?

And will the spirit be entranced, alone, Like one in an exalted opium-dream-- Time s.p.a.ce, and all their varied dwellers gone; And sunlight vanished, and all things that seem;

Thought only waking; thought that doth not own The lapse of ages, or the change of place; Thought, in which only that which _is_, is known; The substance here, the form confined to s.p.a.ce?

Or as a child that sobs itself to sleep, Wearied with labour which the grown call play, Waking in smiles as soon as morn doth peep, Springs up to labour all the joyous day,

Shall we lie down, weary; and sleep, until Our souls be cleansed by long and dreamless rest; Till of repose we drink our thirsting fill, And wake all peaceful, smiling, pure, and blest?

I know not--only know one needful thing: G.o.d is; I shall be ever in His view; I only need strength for the travailing, Will for the work Thou givest me to do.

LESSONS FOR A CHILD.

I.

There breathes not a breath of the morning air, But the spirit of Love is moving there; Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree Mingles with thousands in harmony; But the Spirit of G.o.d doth make the sound, And the thoughts of the insect that creepeth around.

And the sunshiny b.u.t.terflies come and go, Like beautiful thoughts moving to and fro; And not a wave of their busy wings Is unknown to the Spirit that moveth all things.

And the long-mantled moths, that sleep at noon, And dance in the light of the mystic moon-- All have one being that loves them all; Not a fly in the spider's web can fall, But He cares for the spider, and cares for the fly; And He cares for each little child's smile or sigh.

How it can be, I cannot know; He is wiser than I; and it must be so.

II.

The tree-roots met in the spongy ground, Looking where water lay; Because they met, they twined around, Embraced, and went their way.

Drop dashed on drop, as the rain-shower fell, Yet they strove not, but joined together; And they rose from the earth a bright clear well, Singing in sunny weather.

Sound met sound in the wavy air; They kissed as sisters true; Yet, jostling not on their journey fair, Each on its own path flew.

Wind met wind in a garden green; Each for its own way pled; And a trampling whirlwind danced between, Till the flower of Love lay dead.

III.

To C.C.P.