A something past, or yet to be
Of a higher destiny

Is o'er us; seeking here her home,

When the soul puts forth her leaves,
Touch'd by the blast she grieves—

Born here her root to spread, in purer skies to bloom.

Save weeping o'er her wither'd root,
Or on some more baneful shoot,
Faith lifts up her woe-wasted form,
Gladd'ning 'neath the pearly shower

Of her Baptismal dower,

And sees Angelic wings blend with each passing

storm.

Would that from towers of that calm height
My cold lantern Thou would'st light,

And search my heart deeps, till beside

I nought but my darkness see,

And Thy dread purity,

And 'neath Thy bleeding robe my shame and sadness hide.

When Thy blood's on me I will weep,
And my crimes in sorrow steep,

Till sitting 'neath Thy sacred feet,

I may join Creation's throng,

In the eternal song,

With voice as may not be for sinful man unmeet.

THE SPIRIT'S PROGRESS.

Hail, thou golden portal,
Gleaming o'er the deep,

To the halls immortal

Calling me from sleep,

I wake, and come to you o'er broad Ocean's sweep!

Round me scintillations

Of the starry crowds,

And new combinations

Of the breaking clouds,

Now gather, and now pass in tumultuous shrouds.

Dark the running Ocean
Tumbles 'neath my feet,
And in wild commotion

Spirits round me fleet,

Their immortal stranger o'er the waves to greet.

What new guiding Hand
Fills my soul with wonder,
With a viewless wand

Setting clouds asunder?

Lightning his raiment is, and his voice the thunder!

What strange Providence

Girds me all about,

And beyond all sense

Rules the racking rout,

And o'er stable waves holds me up throughout!

Which

Infinite the store
Of the old Creations;
Who shall deeps explore,

Count the constellations,

pave the spirit's path to her habitations?

Pearls and emerald dyes

On wing'd insects float;
Endless sweetness lies

In the bird's wild throat;

Nature's flying finger wakes a countless note.

Morn on morn doth follow

Bringing a new day,

(As a watery hollow

Doth the skies display,)

Another yet the same, brotherlike alway.

As the peacock's plume

Varies self-same eyes,

Nought can fill the room

Of diversities,

Nature downward opens ever boundless skies.

Who shall speak the changes

Which the spirits know,

In their solemn ranges

To the Eternal now?

Who th' Angelic watches which around them go?

What ethereal nations

Lie beyond the sight,

In their glorious stations

Crowded infinite,

While we deem of nought but what sees day and night?

By what name or spell
Are we to you known?
Or do ye syllable

Heavenly words alone,

And the new name writ in the mysterious stone?

Oft methinks at waking,

A spirit calls my name,