And learn with the gentle Mary, At the Saviour's feet to stay, And to choose that better portion Which shall never be taken away.

Ah! lovely and thrice beloved, Sitting at Jesus' feet, In the shady walks of Bethany, And the summer twilight sweet,--

With the thrilling palms and the olives, Listening overhead, To that wonderful voice whose music Had power to waken the dead!

Even thus through life's grave-shadowed valleys, We may walk with that Heavenly Friend, With a child's loving faith in His promise To be with us unto the end.

So I ask for my Mary, not grandeur, Nor the wealth, nor the fame of the day, But that which the world cannot give her, The peace which it takes not away.

THE WOODS IN JUNE.

In the sleep-haunted gloom Born of the slumbrous twilight in these shades, These vast and venerable collonades, I welcome thee, dear June!

And while with head reclined, And limbs aweary with my woodland walk, I listen to the low melodious talk Of leaves and singing wind,

The merry roundelay Of the swart ploughman, sowing summer grain, And tinkling sheep-bell on the distant plain, And pastures far away,

Come with a soft refrain, Like a faint echo from the outer world, While Peace sits by me with her white wings furled, Within my green domain.

This is my palace, where Great trunks are amber pillars to support The blue roof of the vast and silent court, In cl.u.s.tered columns fair:

And underneath, the bloom Of water-lilies through the fragrant night Of these dim arches spreads a perfumed light, Even at highest noon.

Down dropping all day long, With a most musical cadence in the hall, A wandering stream lets its slow waters fall In twinkling rhythmic song.

Hither the vagrant bee, From the broad fields and sunshine all astray, Loiters the idle hours of noon away, In golden dreams like me.

And from my window frame, This oriel window opening on the sky, I see the white barques of the clouds drift by, With prows of rosy flame.

Fantastical and strange, Their purple sails go floating o'er the deep, Like shadows through the summer land of sleep, In never ending change.

The wild shy things which roam The woods, and live in bough and tree and grot, Flutter and chirp unscared, they fear me not, For I too am at home.

And feel my heart in tune With the great heart of Nature, and the voice Of all the glad bright creatures that rejoice In the green woods of June.

THE ISLE OF SLEEP.

In those dark mornings, deep in June, When brooding birds stir in the nest, And heavy dews slip down the leaves, And drop into the rose's breast, I woke and looked into the east, And saw no sign of coming day, The pale cold morning rolled in mist, Slept on the hill-tops far away.

My window looked into the dawn, The slumbering dawn that was so nigh, The shadow of the hills was drawn In waving lines against the sky.

But warmer hues began to tip The edges of the mountain cloud And morning's rosy cheek and lip Glowed softly through her snow-pale shroud.

I turned and gazed into the west, The river murmured in my ear 'Gone night, and silence, dreams and rest, Another day of toil is here.'

I would I had a fairy boat, With every swift bright sail unfurled, To fly beyond the west, and float With night into the under world.

My head sank lower on my arm, My eyes re-closed in sleepy bliss, While fancy wove her subtle charm, My dream did shape itself to this:-- Upon a sh.o.r.e whose sands of gold Sloped down into a silver sea, Her radiant pinions all unrolled, A fairy boat did wait for me.

And Night with all her splendours pale Did walk before me on the deep, The stars looked through her azure veil, And hand in hand with her went Sleep.

Beyond the hills, into the night My boat went drifting like the wind, The stars paled round us, and the light Died on our pathway far behind.

And cloudy shapes with rippling hair That shaded eyes of dreamy calm, Formed and dissolved into the air Which laved my brow with waves of balm.

Dusk arms upreaching from the sea, And shadow-faces, seen and gone, Toward an isle did beckon me, Beyond the farthest gates of dawn.

We drew towards that lonely sh.o.r.e, With still and measured motion slow, I saw the hills lift evermore Their ma.s.sive foreheads crowned with snow, And underneath, like moonlight fair, I saw a hundred fathoms deep, The crystal columns light as air That undergird the Isle of Sleep.

And spire and dome and architrave, And pictured window's rainbow gleams Upshone from out the charmed wave, Afloat upon a sea of dreams.

The sea-moss wove her braided locks Along the beach in chains afar, And lilies smiled among the rocks, Peerless and perfect as a star.

A wood of asphodel below Uprose as still and sweet as death, And gliding shapes moved to and fro,-- I watched them with suspended breath.

Lost loved ones met and clasped me here; I looked into their eyes serene, They spake to me, and I did hear As I were walking in a dream.

But even then a wind arose That swept the morning mists away, And showed, unfolding like a rose, The bright flower of the perfect day: And fading--faded like a cloud, The hands I clasped, like wreaths of smoke, While chanticleer crowed shrill and loud, And wan and 'wildered I awoke.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.

Under the orchard boughs, That drop red leaves like coals into the gra.s.s.

The golden arrows of the sunset fall; And on the vine-hung wall Great purple cl.u.s.ters in delicious drowse, Beakers of chrysolite and amethyst, Yet by the sun unkissed, Lean down to all the wooing lips that pa.s.s, Brimful of red, red wine Sweet as brown peasants glean along the castled Rhine

All sights and sounds are of the Autumn weather; The urchin rock'ng in the trees Shakes silver laughter with the apples down,-- And wading to the knees Among the stubble and the husks so brown, The oxen keeping every patient step together, Bring in the creaking wain, High-piled with yellow maize and sheaves of rustling grain.

While in the mill, with ceaseless whirr and drone, With moss and lichens to the roof o'ergrown An undertone to every other sound, The blind old horse goes round

Gathered along the farm-house eaves In noisy congress, see the swallows sit, Or whirling in mid air like autumn leaves, In airy wheels they flit.

Bright rovers of all summer skies, I follow them with wistful eyes To-morrow's sunset they will be A thousand leagues by land and sea Beyond this wintry hemisphere Heaven gathers round their joyous wings The sunlight of perpetual springs, Soft airs and fragrant blossomings Through all the glad round year.

I hear as though I did not hear, Along the upland fields remote, The plough-boy's whistle, silver clear: For hark' the herds-man's graver note, Who hums beneath the orchard boughs, The ballad of that grand old man, Who marshalled freedom's battle van, And fell,--no laurel round his brows.

To-day the hero-martyr's grave Is shaken by the armed tread Of patriotic soldiers o'er his head Not by the footsteps of one slave!

So grows the work that he began, Wrought out in slow and toilsome ways, Yet ever building through the days, A grander heritage for man.

Oh! harvest years, foretold so long!

Through seas of blood, through years of wrong, A people patient brave and strong, In camp and field, and battle clang, 'Mid cannon's roar and trumpet's peal, And shock of war, and clash of steel, For you each steadfast blade out-sprang!