O new-born soul--O child of clay,
O bird uncaged and still astray;

"Take through the universe thy road;
All paths lead up to His abode,
Converging at the Mount of God!"




IN THE COUNTRY.


Here the sunshine, filtering down,
Through leaves of emerald, dun and brown,
Is green instead of golden
And the hum and roar of the distant town
In an endless hush is holden.

Twinkling bright through the shadowing limes.
The brook rains a sparkle of silver rhymes
On the dragon-fly, its neighbour;
It pays no duty in dollars and dimes,
For its work is all love-labour.

Here are no spindles, nor wheels to be whirled,
No forges nor looms from the outside world,
Stunning the ear with clamour;
You hear but the whisper of leaves unfurled,
And the tap of the woodpecker's hammer