What, though hiding from the ken
Of my small prying fellow-men,—
Still within my musing mind,
Wisdom's secret stores I find,
And, little noticed, sweetly feed
On hidden manna, meat indeed,
Blessed thoughts I never told
Unconsidered, uncontroll❜d,
Rushing by as thick and fast
As autumn leaves upon the blast:
Or better, like the gracious rain
Dropping on some thirsty plain.
And is not this to be a king,
To carry in my heart a spring
Of ceaseless pleasures, deep and pure,
Wealth cannot buy, nor power procure ?
Yea, by the poet's artless art,

And the sweet searchings of his heart,

By his unknown, unheeded bliss,

Place me on some desert shore

Foot of man ne'er wandered o'er;
Lock me in a lonely cell

Beneath some prison citadel;

Still, here or there, within I find
My quiet kingdom of the Mind;
Nay,-mid the tempest fierce and dark,
Float me on peril's frailest bark,
My quenchless soul could sit and think
And smile at danger's dizziest brink:
And wherefore ?-God, my God, is still
King of kings in good and ill;

And where He dwelleth-every where-
Safety supreme and peace are there ;
And where he reigneth-all around-
Wisdom, and love, and power are found;

And reconciled to Him and bliss,

Thus for my days; each waking hour
Grand with majesty and power,

Every minute rich in treasure,

Gems of peace, and pearls of pleasure.
And for my nights—those wondrous nights ?
How manifold my Mind's delights,
When the young truant, gladly caught
In its own labyrinths of thought,
Finds there is another realm to range,
The dynasties of Chance and Change.
O dreams,-what know I not of dreams?
Their name, their very essence, seems
A tender light, not dark nor clear,
A sad sweet mystery wild and dear,
A dull soft feeling unexplained,
A lie half true, a truth half feigned:
O dreams,-what know I not of dreams?
When Reason, with inebriate gleams,
Looses from his wise control
The prancing Fancies of the soul,
And sober Judgment, slumbering still,
Sets free Caprice to guide the Will.
Within one night have I not spent
Years of adventurous banishment,
Strangely groping like the blind
In the dark caverns of my mind ?
Have I not dwelt, from eve till morn,
Lifetimes in length for praise or scorn,
With fancied joys, ideal woes,
And all sensation's warmest glows,
Wondrously thus expanding Life

Through seeming scenes of peace or strife,

Until I verily reign sublime,

A great creative king of Time?

And there are people, things, and places,

Usual themes, familiar faces,

A second life, that looks as real
As this dull world's own unideal,

Another life of dreams by night,
That, still forgotten wanes in light,
Yet seems itself to wake and sleep,
And in that sleep dreams doubly deep,

While those same dreams may dream anon,
Tangled mazes wandering on !

Yes, I have often, weak and worn,
Feebly waked at earliest morn,

As a shipwreck'd sailor, tost

By the wild waves on some rough coast,
Of perils past remembering nought
But some dim cataracts of thought,
And only roused betimes to know
That yesterday seems years ago!
And I can apprehend full well
What old Pythagoras could tell
Of other scenes, and other climes,
And other Selfs in other times;
For, oft my consciousness has reel'd
With scores of "Richards in the field,”

As, multiform, with no surprise,

I see myself in other guise,

And wonderless walk side by side
With mine own soul, self-multiplied!
If it be royal then to reign
Over an infinite domain,

If it be more than monarch can
To lengthen out the life of man,
Yea, if a godlike thing it be
To revel in ubiquity,

Is there but empty boast in this,

Can so foul and mean a thing
Reign a spiritual King?
Art thou not-yea thou, myself,
In hope a slave to pride and pelf?
Art thou not,-yea, thou, my mind,
Weak and naked, poor and blind?
Yea, be humble; yea, be still;
Meekly bow that rebel Will;
Seek not selfishly for praise;
Go more softly all thy days;
For to thee belongs no power,
Wretched insect of an hour,—
And if God in bounteous dole,
Hath grafted life upon thy soul,
Know thou, there is out of Him
Nor light in mind, nor might in limb;
And, but for One, who from the grave
Of sin and death stood forth to save,
Thy mind, that royal mind of thine,
So great, ambitious and divine,
Would but a root of anguish be,
A madness and a misery,

A bitter fear, a hideous care

All too terrible to bear,

Kingly, but king of pains and woes, The sceptred slave to throbs and throes!

TARRING CHURCH.

MOTHER,-beneath fair Tarring's heavenward spire, Where in old years thy youthful vows were paid, When God had granted thee thy heart's desire,

And she went forth a wife, who came a maid, With mindful steps thus wisely have we stray'd, Full of deep thoughts: for where that sacred fire Of Love was kindled, in the self-same spot, Thou, with the dear companion of thy lot, Thy helpmate all those years, mine honour'd sire, To-day have found fulfilled before your eyes The promise of old time;-look round and see Thy children's children! lo, these babes arise, And call thee blessed: Blessed both be ye! And in your blessing bless ye these, and me.

SONNET; ON A BIRTH.

AT length,-a dreary length of many years,
God's favour hath shone forth! and blest thee well,
O handmaid of the Lord, for all thy tears,

For all thy prayers, and hope, and faith--and fears,
With that best treasure of consummate joy

A childless wife alone can fully tell

How sorely long withheld-her first-born boy: This blessing is from heav'n; to heav'n once more, Another Hannah with her Samuel,

Render thou back the talent yielding ten,

A spirit, trained right early to adore,
A heart to yearn upon its fellow-men,

A being, meant and made for endless heaven,
This give to God: this, God to thee hath given.