You scorn our hill of glittering flints
As though 'twere sown with dragon's teeth,
For that the surface gives no hints,
No hopes of genial growth beneath.
Judge not the surface, bide the hour
When He, whose grace can melt the rock,
Shall bid o'er every flint to tower
A hundred-headed golden shock.

HOME AND ABROAD.

Black and white in a windy war—
Lo! wave devouring wave,
And wilder as we look afar
The ocean monsters rave.
But here, within this sheltering bight,
A glossy sheet upcurls
In whispering cadence low and light,
Its rainbows fringed with pearls.
Secluded thus from outer brawl,
In unambitious ease,
Be ours the lowly home where all
Is tuned to love and peace.

DISTANT SOUNDS.

The children at their evening play
Shout from the village street;
The wind blows all that's rude away,
The rest is gay and sweet.
So from our garden seat on high,
We love the sound to hear,
For distance that enchants the eye
Can fascinate the ear.
Trills that distract us from the cage
Were in the woods a joy;
Who scans too narrowly life's page
Will many a boon destroy.