something demoniacal in him, who can discern a law, or couple two facts. We can imagine a time when," Water runs down hill," may have been taught in the schools. The true man of science will know nature better by his finer organization; he will smell, taste, see, hear, feel, better than other men. His will be a deeper and finer experience. We do not learn by inference and deduction, and the application of mathematics to philosophy, but by direct intercourse and sympathy. It is with science as with ethics, we cannot know truth by contrivance and method; the Baconian is as false as any other, and with all the helps of machinery and the arts, the most scientific will still be the healthiest and friendliest man, and possess a more perfect Indian wisdom. GIFTS. A DROPPING shower of spray Some falling snow, Some bird's swift flight; A summer field o'erstrown With gay and laughing flowers, And shepherd's-clocks half-blown, The waving grain, And spring-soft rain; Are these things ours? THE LOVER'S SONG. BEE in the deep flower-bells, I hide in thy deep flower-eyes, In the well of thy dark cold eye, Sing, love,sing, for thy song Green of the spring, and flower, Centre of them thou art, Building that points on high, Sun-for it is in thy heart, Will not die. SEA SONG. OUR boat, to the waves go free; By the bending tide where the curled wave breaks, For our spirits can wrest the power from the wind, THE EARTH-SPIRIT. I HAVE Woven shrouds of air For the trees which blossoms bear, And clover white and red the footways bear; I laugh aloud in sudden gusts of rain, To see the ocean lash himself in air; I throw smooth shells and weeds along the beach, Glossy, and long, and rich as king's estate. I polish the green ice, and gleam the wall PRAYER. MOTHER dear! wilt pardon one Mother dear! I list thy song In the autumn eve along : Now thy chill airs round the day, I know my prayers will reach thine ear, AFTER-LIFE. THEY tell me the grave is cold, The bed underneath all the living day; They speak of the worms that crawl in the mould, And the rats that in the coffin play; Up above the daisies spring, Eyeing the wrens that over them sing: I shall hear them not in my house of clay. It is not so; I shall live in the veins Of the life which painted the daisies' dim eye, The music of every note, A-lifting times veil,-is that called to die? AUTUMN LEAVES. WOE, woe for the withering leaves! Hither and thither, twirling and whirling For the pitiful pelted driven leaves. As the loving sunlight went glancing by. As life were pressed down by a mighty force; A liquid light and sound, And dripped the drops from your shivering edge, Leaves never more: ye colored and veined, Ye pointed and notched and streaked round about, Ye circled and curved and lateral-lined, Protean shapes of the Spirit of form! With the Sun for a nurse, feeding with light Crowning the hill-top, and shading the vale, |