THE THRUSH.

It was the Thrush,—it was the joyous Thrush,
Who, with his beauteous voice, the woods addressed!
He sank from heavens unseen, and in the hush
Of floating fragrance and soft-slumbering flowers,
Dozing beneath the spell of sun-bright hours,
His summer shower of song the glade's deep heart caressed.
Bright, speckle-breasted, angel-throated bird!
He tilted on the hedge, and piped and wooed;
Now here a note, now there, so low 'twas heard,
Ofttimes, by one deep listening ear, one only,
The ear of Silence; he, her minstrel lonely.
Was it for her divine mute blessing that he sued?
How often I have watched him in the grass,
Familiar, small, erect, and bravely dressed
In spotted golden-brown; have seen him pass
Alertly to and fro, all blithely springing,
With elfin bounds; no longer wildly winging;
Content with Mother Earth, as though he loved her breast.
Earth born, sky destined, living harp of song,
Beloved Thrush, pour forth your notes divine!
Whether to earth or heaven you most belong,
What the vast purpose of your melody,
Your mystic glory, your bright ecstasy,
I know not,—only this, your soul is sweet to mine.

THE LIGHT OF THE STAR.

Dank were the grewsome alleys of the town,
Dingy the houses of the dreary street;
The very dogs reflected degradation,
Gaunt, wolfish; while God's flowers of creation,
Young children, lacking all that makes life sweet,
Through the foul-smelling night ran up and down.
Under a dull street light I watched them play,
Shrilling in high-pitched and unchildlike tones,
Daring the perils of the tainted city.
Then, in my heart, the horror and the pity
For human kind that in such blackness groans
Rose, and I could not drive the pall away.
Amid such concrete evils, inbred sin,
I, groping, questioned, could Christ's kingdom come,
By any means? How could he ever enter
At wealthy portals strong, where self is center,
Or at the darkened doors of spirits dumb,
Dulled by the ancient slums' unceasing din?
But, glancing upward, in my deep distress—
Myself so small an atom of my race—
I saw, above the dreadful hovels shining,
A single star. It seemed, my pain divining,
To answer from illimitable space,
And with its rays to sanctify and bless.
Witness it bore of Law by which worlds move,
Light of the Soul, the Everlasting Mind,
Which—in its compass Earth and Heaven holding—
Is ever like some shining scroll unfolding,
And will unfold with Time, till all mankind
Shall read Life's one solution, perfect Love.

THE MESSAGE OF THE PINES.

Tall Southern pines, with hearts of mystic throbbing,
Stretch your restless, weary boughs across the sunset sky,
Dark Southern pines, whose souls are ever sobbing,
I would roam through these dim aisles and learn the music of your sigh.
Hark! the wail of hearts that can not weep!
Hush! the sigh of souls that long to sleep!
Tall Southern pines, I seek these silent places
Only in my memory—a memory beside me moves.
Dark Southern pines, I love your solemn spaces,
And there in spirit walk, and with her spirit seek the quiet groves.
Hark! the moan of human hearts that yearn!
Hush! the plaint of dreams that would return!
Tall Southern pines, I wrong you in my sorrow.
Harps divine, you chant a dream not passed, but yet to come!
Our two souls shall walk together, on some perfect morrow,
And through the years remain together, when your voices all are dumb.
Hark! her spirit whispers in the grove!
Hush! I feel the presence of my Love!