Lo! seems my mountain a high-altar stair
Whereon I rest, in thought half-dream, half-prayer.
V.—ON FIRE.
Scarce dead the echo of our evening song
That o’er the camp-fire’s whirling blaze up-soared
With wealth of hidden human sweetness stored—
Life-thoughts that thronged the spoken words along;
Scarce lost our lingering footsteps on the moss,
When the slow embers, that we fancied slept,
With purpose sure and step unfaltering crept