A throb, when the soul is entered
By a light that is lit above,

Where the God of Nature has centered

The Beauty of Love.

The world is wide,-these things are small, They may be nothing, but they are All.

A look that is telling a tale,

Which looks alone dare tell,—

When' a cheek is no longer pale,

That has caught the glance, as it fell;
A touch, which seems to unlock

Treasures unknown as yet,
And the bitter-sweet first shock,
One can never forget ;—

The world is wide,-these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.

A sense of an earnest Will
To help the lowly-living,-

And a terrible heart-thrill,
If you' have no power of giving;
An arm of aid to the weak,

A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless:

The world is wide,-these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.

The moment we think we have learnt

The lore of the all-wise One,

By which we could stand unburnt,

On the ridge of the seething sun:

The moment we grasp at the clue,
Long-lost and strangely riven,

Which guides our soul to the True,

And the Poet to Heaven.

The world is wide,-these things are small,If they be nothing, what is there at all?

THE MEN OF OLD.

I KNOW not that the men of old
Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,

Of more ingenuous brow:

I heed not those who pine for force

A ghost of Time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course

Of these appointed days.

Still it is true, and over true,

That I delight to close

This book of life self-wise and new,

And let my thoughts repose

On all that humble happiness,

The world has since foregone,—

The daylight of contentedness

That on those faces shone !

With rights, tho' not too closely scanned,

Enjoyed, as far as known,—

With will by no reverse unmanned,

With pulse of even tone,—

They from to-day and from to-night
Expected nothing more,

Than yesterday and yesternight

Had proffered them before.

To them was life a simple art

Of duties to be done,

A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;

A battle whose great scheme and scope

They little cared to know,

Content, as men at arms, to cope

Each with his fronting foe.

Man now his Virtue's diadem

Puts on and proudly wears,

Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them,

Like instincts, unawares :

Blending their souls' sublimest needs

With tasks of every day,

They went about their gravest deeds,

As noble boys at play.—

And what if Nature's fearful wound

They did not probe and bare,

For that their spirits never swooned

To watch the misery there,—

For that their love but flowed more fast,

Their charities more free,

Not conscious what mere drops they cast
Into the evil sea.

E

A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet,

It is the distant and the dim

That we are sick to greet:

For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire,—

Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh Desire.

Yet, Brothers, who up Reason's hill
Advance with hopeful cheer,-

O! loiter not, those heights are chill,
As chill as they are clear;

And still restrain your haughty gaze,
The loftier that ye go,

Remembering distance leaves a haze
On all that lies below.

THE VOICES OF HISTORY.

THE Poet in his vigil hears
Time flowing through the night,—
A mighty stream, absorbing tears,

And bearing down delight:

There resting on his bank of thought
He listens, till his soul

The Voices of the waves has caught,-
The meaning of their roll.

First, wild and wildering as the strife

Of earthly winds and seas,

Resounds the long historic life

Of warring dynasties :

Uncertain right and certain wrong

In onward conflict driven,

The threats and tramplings of the strong
Beneath a brazen heaven.

The cavernous unsounded East
Outpours an evil tide,

Drowning the hymn of patriarch priest,

The chant of shepherd bride :

How can we catch the angel-word,

How mark the prophet-sound,

'Mid thunders like Niagara's heard

An hundred miles around?

From two small springs that rise and blend,

And leave their Latin home,

The waters East and West extend,

The ocean-power of Rome :

Voices of Victories ever-won,

Of Pride that will not stay,
Billows that burst and perish on
The shores that wear away.

Till, in a race of fierce delight

Tumultuous battle forth,

The snows amassed on many a height,

The cataracts of the North: