Shall be her music; Autumn's manlier throat, Shadow and Storm, bluff Winter's harbingers, Sweetly shall blend with Summer's milder note, Until the chasten'd heart serenely hears

Within that lowly chaunt a strain divine,
Which echoes back th' angelic harps on high,
Singing the great High-Priest, who at his shrine
Hath wedded all in holiest harmony.

For there is that within us, heavenly sown,
That gladdeneth in afflictions, and doth find
Sweetness in sorrow, and when Summer's crown
Turns to the yellow leaf, and the rude wind

Takes up its annual tale of stern decay,
Turns inward, and there finds that sleepless eye,
And secret deep beholding, 'mid the day
Forgotten, yet albeit ever nigh.

That Presence which to feel alone is life,
And harmony, and peace, and holy joy,
A fount within the soul with healing rife,
Turning to love each weary sad employ.

ABSENCE.

Busy Fear, unbidden guest,
To the eye of solitude,

Holding thy discolour'd glass,
Where the loved and absent pass,
Pale and wan, in sickly mood,
Black enchanter, let me rest!

Shall we then distrust our God, And thus sit and sigh forlorn, While about, beneath, unseen, Comes Thy mighty hand between, Bearing us from morn to morn,—

And with healing in Thy rod?

Up Life's glade, like some dark cell,
Lit within with precious things,
Shedding peaceful welcomings,
Was calm Peace's hidden well,
It was good to linger there.

At our side, the sad to own,
Art Thou still! there doth prolong
Thro' Thy works to sorrow's ear,
If the soul be tuned to hear,
A sweet solemn undersong

That doth speak of Thee alone.

What is all the world counts loss,
Sickness, want, or widowhood?

Dark ways leading to the cell
Where Thy heav'nly comforts dwell,
And her arms meek Quietude

Folds, beneath Thy beaming Cross.

THOUGHTS AGAINST WEARINESS.

A chain is on my weary heart,

And I cannot look to Thee;
But in each effort still

To do Thy holy will,

Thy strength and mercy hath a part,
And Thy right hand of victory.

We stand upon a mighty stair
Still day by day unfolded,

From darkness and the cloud,
From mortal eye that shroud

The eternal palaces so fair,
In gold and beauty moulded.

Through a twilight cave before
A Form His cross is bearing,

Each day that from us steals
For us a step reveals,

Where He the bleeding burden bore
To morrow disappearing.

A golden scale is hung aloof,
Here pride of earth declining,

Sinks, like the day from Heav'n,

To darksome gates of Even.

This mounts upon the Eternal roof
With stars of glory shining.

The Spirit, that with Wisdom's child
Dwells in each faint endeavour,

(Though spurn'd returning still,
Like that fabled Sybil,)

That house not made with hands must build,
Where dwells the soul for ever.