Abounding from its sources like a river

Which through the dim lawns streams eternally!

Virtue might then uplift her crest on high,

Spurning those myriad bonds that fret and grieve her: Then all the powers of hell would quake and quiver

Before the ardors of her awful eye. Alas for man with all his high desires,

And inward promptings fading day by day!

High-titled honor pants while it expires,

And clay-born glory turns again tɔ clay.

Low instincts last: our great resolves pass by

Like winds whose loftiest pæan ends but in a sigh.

And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around

The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise

Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

My heart is the dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them for breaking a rule:

My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,

To traverse its threshold no more; Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones,

That meet me each morn at the door!

I shall miss the "good-nights" and kisses, [glee, And the gush of their innocent The group on the green, and the flowers

That are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even, Their song in the school and the street;

I shall miss the low hum of their voices,

And the tread of their delicate feet.

And death says The school is dis

missed!"

May the little ones gather around me To bid me 66 good-night and be kissed!

sweetest things,

If we had but a day;

wearied wills By the clearest light;

springs

In our upward way;

heavenly hills, If they lay in sight;

in an hour,

If the hours were few;

discontent Beneath our feet;

for fresher power

To be and to do.

God sent, With a trust complete.

weak regret,

If the day were but one;

selves set free, To work or to pray,

theme,

immemorial

Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, There must be odors round the pine, Wheel, wheel through the shadow; There must be balm of breathing kine,

Somewhere down in the meadow.

Must I choose? Then anchor me

there

Beyond the beckoning poplars, where The larch is snooding her flowery

hair

Among the thickest hazels of the With wreaths of morning shadow.

brake

shake

Perchance some nightingale doth [song; His feathers, and the air is full of In those old days when I was young and strong,

Beside the nursery.
He used to sing on yonder garden tree,

Along my life my length I lay,

I fill to-morrow and yesterday, I am warm with the suns that have long since set,

fair as Spenser's dream.

HOME, WOunded.

STAY wherever you will,
By the mount or under the hill,
Or down by the little river:
Stay as long as you please,
Give me only a bud from the trees,
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,
I could look on it forever.

not yet.

And like one who dreams and dozes Softly afloat on a sunny sea,

Two worlds are whispering over me, And there blows a wind of roses

From the backward shore to the shore

before,

From the shore before to the back

ward shore,

And like two clouds that meet and pour
Each through each, till core in core
A single self reposes,

The nevermore with the evermore
Above me mingles and closes.