Where Nature's living cup,

Emboss'd with ivy crown and lichen green,
Is ever springing up;

By man forgot it slumbereth not;

But still, unsought for and unseen,

In their own quiet home the fountains move, Which spring from 'neath the throne of aye-enduring Love.

III. 1.

But when the cup is full, or on the morn
Of some glad promise, Fancy on the scene
Pours rays from all her urn, Hope winds his horn,
Thy judgments walk unseen.

Then I will hold me in Thy Fear;

He who would not think Thee near,

When Success had fill'd his sail,

Like some demon in the gale,

And the waters gaily shone

On the smiling summer noon,

Beneath the calm were thunders strown,—

He went in silence down.

2.

But when the voice is still,-the cup o'erthrown,— In desolated halls the harp lies broken,

Faith in the dark horizon coming down,
Descries no gleaming token-
When Affection's myrtle wreath
Shows a budding yew beneath :
Or Grief 'neath the church-yard tree
Sits, or by th' o'er-clouded sea,
Thence shaking light from off his wings,
Hope on silver sandal springs,—
A boat is seen-a guiding star-
And isles that gleam afar.

3.

Then while this azure hall I hold,

By cloud and sunshine built of old,
Thus may ye
both be aye with me,
And clothe me with humility.
So may I live a weaned child,
And pass this ill world undefiled:
And if the praise of man I hear,
Then will I hide me in Thy fear:
When his reproof my heart would shake,
Thy love will I my refuge make.

T

IDEAL ANTICIPATIONS.

"Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him." 1 Cor. ii. 9.

In

Deep in the caves of mind,

Beyond where thought hath birth,
A form of heavenly beauty is enshrin'd:
Amid its shadows here on earth,
And all throughout Art's weary reach,
Wherever Sense can teach,

every nook around our house of pain,

For something fair we seek, but seek for it in vain.

Though wrecks of Eden's grace,

And gleanings dimly bright,

Nature hath stored in her own hiding-place,

And half reveals to human sight;

With her light wand, if Fancy flies

Before the ear and eyes,

Within her glass there is a fairer syk,

And dim and dun the lights of cold reality.

Or when the dark blue hall

With stars is lighted up,

Full of strange eyes; and haply one o'er all
So beautiful, that Fancy's cup

Runs o'er; still all that is beheld

Speaks more left unreveal'd;

As when in woodland haunts and alleys green, Behind each rock and tree, flies Nature's fairy queen.

And some, in marble mould,

Have toil'd with form and mien
That unpourtrayed image to unfold,

And named some fabled thing unseen-
Something they know not, yet would love,
Apollo, Pallas, Jove-

Then turn away; 'tis in the bosom pent,
And all that art can do is vain and impotent.

And some with tuneful shell,

And all th' enchanting beat

Of sounds made musical, have sought full well,
With wreathed phrase and windings sweet,
And images most manifold,

The unearthly grace to mould;

As when good Homer pour'd his soul in song, And Spenser wander'd forth in magic fancy strong;

In wonder's twilight porch,

And spirit-haunted ground,

'Mid shapes and shades lit by his wizard torch, He sought for something yet unfound: Behind the veil a form hath stood,

For ever fair and good;

More than his soul had known, or spirit sung, Led by th' enchantress Hope her fairy haunts among.

Yea, what is human love,

When her impassion'd sense

Makes all in earth below, and heav'n above,

To speak her own deep eloquence,

Till they obsequious homage pay

Unto a thing of clay?

'Tis that she borrows from that ray within,

And thence a halo weaves around a child of sin.

Vain soul, where dost thou run,

Wander'd from thine own place,

In which obedience held thee round thy Sun?
Thy clue regain, thy thread retrace,

Ere the gate close for evermore,

For dark and low the door!

Ah me! is this the door, and this the way?

Alas! I tremble sore; let us kneel down and pray.