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And God them taught, at every close

Of murmuring waves beyond,
And green leaves round, to interpose

Their choral voices fond,
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.

Fit ministers! Of living loves,

Theirs hath the calmest fashion, Their living voice the likest moves

To lifeless intonation, The lovely monotone of springs And winds, and such insensate things.

My little doves were ta en away

From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean rolling grey,

And tempest-clouded airs. My little doves,—who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue !

And now, within the city prison,

In mist and chillness pent,
With sudden upward look they listen

For sounds of past content-
For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

The stir without the glow of passion,

The triumph of the mart,
The gold and silver as they clash on

Man's cold metallic heart,
The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,
These only sounds are heard instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand

Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand

What human musings mean, (Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine, Are fastened upwardly to mine!)

Soft falls their chant as on the nest

Beneath the sunny zone;
For love that stirred it in their breast

Has not aweary grown,
And 'neath the city's shade can keep
The well of music clear and deep.

And love that keeps the music, fills

With pastoral memories.
All echoing from out the hills,

All droppings from the skies,
All flowings from the wave and wind,
Remembered in their chant, I find.

So teach ye me the wisest part,

My little doves! to move
Along the city-ways with heart

Assured by holy love,
And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.

'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream

More hard, in Babel's street!
But if the soulless creatures deem

Their music not unmeet
For sunless walls—let us begin,
Who wear immortal wings within !

To me, fair memories belong

Of scenes that used to bless,
For no regret, but present song,

And lasting thankfulness,
And very soon to break away,
Like types, in purer things than they.

I will have hopes that cannot fade,

For flowers the valley yields!
I will have humble thoughts instead

Of silent, dewy fields!
My spirit and my God shall be
My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea.



NINE years old! The first of any

Seem the happiest years that come.
Yet when I was nine, I said
No such word !-I thought instead
That the Greeks had used as many

In besieging Ilium.

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Nine green years had scarcely brought me

To my childhood's haunted spring.
I had life, like flowers and bees

In betwixt the country trees,
And the sun the pleasure taught me

Which he teacheth every thing.


If the rain fell, there was sorrow,

Little head leant on the pane,
Little finger drawing down it

The long trailing drops upon it,
And the “Rain, rain, come to-morrow,'

Said for charm against the rain.

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Such a charın was right Canidian

Though you meet it with a jeer!
If I said it long enough,

Then the rain hummed dimly off,
And the thrush with his pure Lydian

Was left only to the ear;

And the sun and I together

Went a-rushing out of doors!
We, our tender spirits, drew

Over hill and dale in view, Glimmering hither, glimmering thither,

In the footsteps of the showers.

Underneath the chestnuts dripping,

Through the grasses wet and fair,
Straight I sought my garden-ground,

With the laurel on the mound,
And the pear-tree oversweeping

A side-shadow of green air.

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In the garden lay supinely

A huge giant wrought of spade!
Arms and legs were stretched at length

In a passive giant strength,—
The fine meadow turf, cut finely,

Round them laid and interlaid.


Call him Hector, son of Priam!

Such his title and degree.
With my rake I smoothed his brow,

Both his cheeks I weeded through,
But a rhymer such as I am,

Scarce can sing his dignity.


Eyes of gentianellas azure,

Staring, winking at the skies.
Nose of gillyflowers and box.

Scented grasses put for locks,
Which a little breeze, at pleasure,

Set a-waving round his eyes.

x. Brazen helm of daffodillies,

With a glitter toward the light.
Purple violets for the mouth,

Breathing perfumes west and south; And a sword of flashing lilies,

Holden ready for the fight.

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