FROM "WORSHIP"

FOR them, O God, who only worship Thee In fanes whose fretted roofs shut out the heavens,

Let organs breathe, and chorded psalteries sound:

But let my voice rise with the mingled noise

Of winds and waters;-winds that in the sedge,

And grass, and ripening grain, while nature sleeps,

Practise, in whispered music, soft and low, Their sweet inventions, and then sing them loud

In caves, and on the hills, and in the woods, A moving anthem, that along the air Dying, then swelling forth in fitful gusts, Like a full choir of bodiless voices,

wind

Rousing its might among the forest

trees,

Thou sing of mountain and of flood,
The voiceful thunder of the seas,
With all their inland symphonies,

Their thousand brooks and rills;
The vale's deep voice, the roaring wood,
The ancient silence of the hills,
Sublimer still than these;
Or in devotion's loftier mood,

Like a solemn organ tone

In some vast minster heard alone, Feelings that are thoughts inspire; Or, with thy hand upon the lyre High victories to celebrate,

Summon from its strings the throng Of stately numbers intricate

That swell the impetuous tide of song. O Bard, of soul assured and high, And god-like calm! we look on thee With like serene and awful eye, As when, of such divinity Still credulous, the multitude One in the concourse might behold, Whose statue in his life-time stood Among the gods. O Poet, old

In all the years of future time !
But young in the perpetual youth
And bloom of love, and might of truth,
To these thy least ambitious rhyme

Is faithful, and partakes their worth; Yea, true as is the starry chime

To the great strains the sun gives
forth.

Bard of our Time! thy name we see,
By golden-haired Mnemosyne,
First graved upon its full-writ page,
Thee
last relinquished, whom the

Age

Doth yield to Immortality.

DIRGE

FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE

ROOM for a soldier! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;

Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb bath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;

Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,

Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it.
Where the bee will dine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover;

Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;

Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep;

And that mysterious tie a mother bears.

She hath fulfilled her promise and hath passed;

Set her down gently at the iron door! Eyes look on that loved image for the last: Now cover it in earth, her earth no

more.

That, when she died, all recognized her birth,

And had their sorrow in serene control.

"Not here! not here!" to every mourner's

heart The wing

ring