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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
Filled with a beam of light,
The breath of some soft day,
The groves by wan moonlight;
Some river's flow,

Some falling snow,

Some bird's swift flight;

A summer field o'erstrown

With gay and laughing flowers,

And shepherd's-clocks half-blown,
That tell the merry hours;

The waving grain,

And spring-soft rain;

Are these things ours?

THE LOVER'S SONG.

BEE in the deep flower-bells,
Brook in the cavern dim,
Fawn in the woodland dells
Hideth him.

I hide in thy deep flower-eyes,

In the well of thy dark cold eye,
In thy heart my feelings rise,
There they lie.

Sing, love,sing, for thy song
Filleth the life of my mind,
Thou bendest my woes along
Like a wind.

Green of the spring, and flower,
Fruit of the summer day,
Midnight and moonlit hour,
What say they?

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,
Like the track of the wind on the white snow-flakes,
Away, away, 't is a path o'er the sea.

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For our spirits can wrest the power from the wind,
And the gray clouds yield to the sunny mind,-
Fear not we the whirl of the gale.

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THE EARTH-SPIRIT.

I HAVE Woven shrouds of air
In a loom of hurrying light

For the trees which blossoms bear,
And gilded them with sheets of bright.
I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss,
I make the golden flies and their fine bliss,
I paint the hedge-rows in the lane,

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,
And pour the curling waves far o'er the glassy reach;
Swing bird-nests in the elms, and shake cool moss
Along the aged beams, and hide their loss.
The very broad rough stones I gladden too,
Some willing seeds I drop along their sides,
Nourish the generous plant with freshening dew,
Till there, where all was waste, true joy abides.
The peaks of aged mountains, with my care,
Smile in the red of glowing morn elate;
I braid the caverns of the sea with hair

Glossy, and long, and rich as king's estate.

I polish the green ice, and gleam the wall
With the white frost, and leave the brown trees tall.

PRAYER.

MOTHER dear! wilt pardon one
Who loved not the generous Sun,
Nor thy seasons loved to hear
Singing to the busy year :-
Thee neglected, shut his heart,
In thy being, had no part.

Mother dear! I list thy song

In the autumn eve along :

Now thy chill airs round the day,
And leave me my time to pray.
Mother dear! the day must come
When thy child shall make his home,
His long last home, amid the grass,
Over which thy warm hands pass.

I know my prayers will reach thine ear,
Thou art with me while I ask,
Nor a child refuse to hear,
Who would learn his little task.
Let me take my part with thee,
In the gray clouds or thy light,
Laugh with thee upon the sea,
And idle on the land by night;
In the trees I live with thee,
In the flowers, like any bee.

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,
I shall kiss their lips when I fall in rains,
With the wrens and bees shall over them fly,-
In the trill of the sweet birds float

The music of every note,

A-lifting times veil,-is that called to die?

AUTUMN LEAVES.

WOE, woe for the withering leaves!
Flimsy and lank and falling fast,

Hither and thither, twirling and whirling
In the freshening wind, in the bright blue sky;
Glistening and clear and keen is the sky,
But it has no mercy, none,

For the pitiful pelted driven leaves.
I saw ye, leaves! in your cradle lying
On that day far back, O where is it now?
In your varied velvety hues of green,
That softer and softer grew to the eye,

As the loving sunlight went glancing by.
Out of the dark hard tree,
Wonderful things, ye came;
A summer hour has passed,
Sultry, and red, and still,

As life were pressed down by a mighty force;
A summer rain has fallen,

A liquid light and sound,

And dripped the drops from your shivering edge,
But they'll drip no more. Your hour has come;
Remaineth the tree, but passeth the leaf
Into the damp ground silently sinking,
Sinking and matted in mud and in snow.

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
Out of his bosom, and moon with the dew
Filched from the air under secret of night.
Tenderly nurtured and royally served,
A company regal, innumerable,

Crowning the hill-top, and shading the vale,
Clustering archly the country-home,

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