IV.

We should love beauty even as flowers-- For all, 'tis said, they bud and blow, They are the world's as well as ours-- But thou--alas! God made thee grow So fair, I cannot love thee so!

A FEELING.

The flowers and the grass to me Are eloquent reproachfully; For would they wave so pleasantly Or look so fresh and fair, If a man, cunning, hollow, mean, Or one in anywise unclean, Were looking on them there?

No; he hath grown so foolish-wise He cannot see with childhood's eyes; He hath forgot that purity And lowliness which are the key Of Nature's mysteries; No; he hath wandered off so long From his own place of birth, That he hath lost his mother-tongue, And, like one come from far-off lands, Forgetting and forgot, he stands Beside his mother's hearth.

THE LOST CHILD.

I wandered down the sunny glade And ever mused, my love, of thee; My thoughts, like little children, played, As gayly and as guilelessly.

If any chanced to go astray, Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms.

From that soft nest the happy one Looked up at me and calmly smiled; Its hair shone golden in the sun, And made it seem a heavenly child.

Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down, And blest it with a love so deep, That, like a nursling of her own, It clasped her neck and fell asleep.

THE CHURCH.