(Eichendorff.)

It was as if the heavens Had kissed the earth to rest, And she lay dreaming of them With flowers upon her breast.

The fields and murmuring woodland Were bathed in fairest light, So soft the breeze’s whisper, So starry-clear the night!

On outspread wings uplifted My spirit fain would roam Through cloudland realms unbounded, To rest at last--at home.

IN MORNING-LAND.

In morning-land the radiant, rosy skies Each moment gleam with some new-born surprise, Or flush with dawning hope; the balmy air Is laden with a thousand perfumes rare And thrilled with chords of strange, sweet melodies.

On that blest shore, which all around us lies, Peace reigns supreme, and joyous carols rise From every shaded copse and pleasaunce fair In Morning-land.

Knowst thou the land? Wherever friendly eyes Beam faith and constancy; where true love flies, Glad tidings of good-will and peace to bear; Where service is divine, God everywhere,-- There dawns the perfect day that never dies In Morning-land.

SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.

I stood in a valley; above me Uprose a mighty hill; The air was vibrant with music Of insect, bird, and rill.

The flowers among the grasses About my weary feet Swung all their tiny censers, Till perfume, heavy-sweet,

Was shed abroad in the sunlight And wafted to and fro, While droning bees at the altar Their Aves chanted low.

A soft breeze touched my forehead, And whispered, “Peace, be still!” But ever above me towered That silent, awful hill,

Whose peaks in mists were hidden, Whose slopes were brown and bare; And yet, as I gazed, I murmured, “O God! If I were there!”

For I knew that the peace of the valley Was never meant for me; And I longed for the mountain summit,-- Its pure winds blowing free,

Its life of strength and vigor, Its thoughts of the good and true, Its steadfast crags of granite In the far-off, heavenly blue.

I stand in the valley, and ever I gaze at the mountain bare, And I long for a hand to help me-- O God! That I were there!

THE COMET; NOVEMBER, 1882.

Wondrous portent, set on high, Moving through the silent sky, Clothed in formless majesty,--

Who can read those words of light On the star-lit wall of night? “Mene, Tekel,” dost thou write?

Nay, thou bright Star in the East, O’er no haughty monarch’s feast, Prophet nor Chaldæan priest,

Doth thy gentle radiance shine; Nobler resting-place is thine, ’Tis a Baby’s brow divine.

With the waning of the year From afar thou dost appear, Telling us that Christ is near.