And thou shalt love it only as the nest Whence glory-winged things to Heaven have flown:

To the great Soul alone are all things known;

Present and future are to her as past, While she in glorious madness doth forecast

That perfect bud, which seems a flower full-blown

To each new Prophet, and yet always

opes

Fuller and fuller with each day and hour, Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes,

And longings high, and gushings of wide power,

Yet never is or shall be fully blown Save in the forethought of the Eternal One.

XIX.

THE SAME CONTINUED. FAR 'yond this narrow parapet of Time, With eyes uplift, the poet's soul should look

Into the Endless Promise, nor should brook

One prying doubt to shake his faith sublime;

To him the earth is ever in her prime And dewiness of morning, he can see Good lying hid, from all eternity, Within the teeming womb of sin and crime;

His soul should not be cramped by any bar,

His nobleness should be so Godlike high,

That his least deed is perfect as a star, His common look majestic as the sky, And all o'erflooded with a light from far, Undimmed by clouds of weak mortality.

XX.

TO M. O. S.

MARY, since first I knew thee, to this hour,

My love hath deepened, with my wiser

sense

Subject alone to Order's higher law. What cares the Russian serf or Southern slave

Though we should speak as man spake never yet

Of gleaming Hudson's broad magnificence,

Or green Niagara's never-ending roar? Our country hath a gospel of her own To preach and practise before all the world,

The freedom and divinity of man, The glorious claims of human brotherhood,

Which to pay nobly, as a freeman should,

Gains the sole wealth that will not fly away,

And the soul's fealty to none but God. These are realities, which make the shows

Of outward Nature, be they ne'er so grand,

Seem small, and worthless, and contemptible.

These are the mountain-summits for our bards,

Which stretch far upward into heaven itself,

And give such wide-spread and exulting view

Of hope, and faith, and onward destiny,

That shrunk Parnassus to a molehill dwindles.

Our new Atlantis, like a morning-star, Silvers the murk face of slow-yielding