HYMNS.

One hymn more, O my lyre! Praise to the God above, Of joy and life and love, Sweeping its strings of fire!

Oh, who the speed of bird and wind And sunbeam's glance will lend to me, That, soaring upward, I may find My resting-place and home in Thee?

Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom, Adoreth with a fervent flame,— Mysterious spirit! unto whom Pertain nor sign nor name!

Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go, Up from the cold and joyless earth, Back to the God who bade them flow, Whose moving spirit sent them forth.

But as for me, O God! for me, The lowly creature of Thy will, Lingering and sad, I sigh to Thee, An earth-bound pilgrim still!

Was not my spirit born to shine Where yonder stars and suns are glowing? To breathe with them the light divine From God's own holy altar flowing?

To be, indeed, whate'er the soul In dreams hath thirsted for so long,— A portion of heaven's glorious whole Of loveliness and song?

Oh, watchers of the stars at night, Who breathe their fire, as we the air,— Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, Oh, say, is He, the Eternal, there?

Bend there around His awful throne The seraph's glance, the angel's knee? Or are thy inmost depths His own, O wild and mighty sea?

Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go! Swift as the eagle's glance of fire, Or arrows from the archer's bow, To the far aim of your desire!

Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, Like spring-doves from the startled wood, Bearing like them your sacrifice Of music unto God!

And shall these thoughts of joy and love Come back again no more to me? Returning like the patriarch's dove Wing-weary from the eternal sea,

To bear within my longing arms The promise-bough of kindlier skies, Plucked from the green, immortal palms Which shadow Paradise?

All-moving spirit! freely forth At Thy command the strong wind goes Its errand to the passive earth, Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose,

Until it folds its weary wing Once more within the hand divine; So, weary from its wandering, My spirit turns to Thine!

Child of the sea, the mountain stream, From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, By evening's star and noontide's sun,

Until at last it sinks to rest, O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, And moans upon its mother's breast,— So turns my soul to Thee!

O Thou who bidst the torrent flow, Who lendest wings unto the wind,— Mover of all things! where art Thou? Oh, whither shall I go to find

The secret of Thy resting-place? Is there no holy wing for me, That, soaring, I may search the space Of highest heaven for Thee?

Oh, would I were as free to rise As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne,— The arrowy light of sunset skies, Or sound, or ray, or star of morn,

Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through earth and heaven; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee!