Still onward, upward, higher! higher!

Make such thy purpose, such thy aim,
That they who watch thy spirit's flight
Shall look to heaven from whence it came,
And loose thee in celestial light.




SONGS.


THE LITTLE SPRING.

Beneath a green and mossy bank
There flows a clear and fairy stream;
There the pert squirrel oft has drank,
And thought, perhaps, 'twas made for him.

Their pitchers there the laborers fill,
As drop by drop the crystals flow,
Singing their silvery welcome still
To all who to the fountain go.

Then to the river on it glides,
Its tributary drop to bear,
Its modest head a moment hides,
Then rises up and sparkles there.