A CONTRAST.
In the green silence of this sylvan shore
How servile seems the city’s ceaseless roar!
How vain the restless rivalry for pelf!
How low the aim that centers all in self!
The penury of Pride—the sordid care
Of souls despoiled of poetry and prayer—
Seems in these happy shades to be
The comedy of misery.
THE GOAL.
Sweet scents, sweet sounds, sweet scenes!
With all that intervenes
In sweeter solemn silences profound,—
Whereinto overflows,
In forest, river, rose,
Passionless being, beauty without bound.
How deep the mind’s repose!
The vagrant sea breeze blows
With kindred pulses through the fragrant shade;
And sod and soul are blent
In blest enfranchisement,—
Prefiguring the end for all things made.
For life and love, supreme
Beyond Isaiah’s dream,
Shall bear all being to its blissful goal;
The wondrous word is true:
“Lo! I make all things new;”—
The universe is ransomed with the soul.