264

THE PRAYER.

Fetch me a drop from yon translucent lake,

Or, farther up, from

yon pure mountain well,

These lips to cool, this feverish thirst to slake,

This weary frame to freshen, these fierce fires to quell.

O thou my God, my being's health and source,
Better than life, brighter than noon to me,
Stretch out thy loving hand, with gentle force,
Bend this still-struggling will, and draw it after

Thee.

Return to me, my oft-forgotten God,

My spirit's true though long-forsaken rest; Undo these bars, re-enter thine abode,

In Thee and in Thy love alone would I be blest.

Re-mould this inner man in every part,

Re-knit these broken ties, resume thy sway; Take, as Thy throne and altar, this poor heart;

Oh teach me how to love, oh help me to obey!

THE CITY.

THOU art no child of the city;

Hadst thou known it as I have done, Thou wouldst not have smiled with pity, As if joy were with thee alone.

With thee the unfettered ranger
Of the forest and moorland free;
As if gloom and toil and danger
Could alone in a city be.

The smoke, the din, and the bustle
Of the city, I know them well,
And I know the gentle rustle

Of the leaves in your breezy dell.

Day's hurry, and evening's riot,
In the city I know them all;

I know, too, the loving quiet

Of your glen at the day's sweet fall.

I know too each grim old alley,

With the blanched ray flickering through; I know each sweep of your valley,

Where the rosy light lies in dew.

I know too the stifling sadness

Of the summer-noon's sultry street;
I've breathed the air of your gladness

Where the streams and the breezes meet.

I know the dun haunts of fever,

Where the blossoms of youth decay;

I know where your free broad river
Sweeps disease on its breast away.

Yet despite your earnest pity,

And despite its own smoke and din,
I cling to yon crowded city,

Though I shrink from its woe and sin.

For I know its boundless measure,
Of the true, and the good, and fair;
Its vast and far gathered treasure,

All the wealth of soul that is there.

THE CITY.

You may smile, or sneer, or pity,

You may fancy it weak and strange ; My eye to yon smoky city,

Still returns from its widest

range.

My heart in its inmost beatings
Ever lingers around its homes;
My soul wakes up in its greetings,

To the gleam of its spires and domes.

You call it life's weary common,
At the best but an idle fair,

The market of man and woman,—
But the choice of the race are there.

The wonders of life and gladness,
All the wonders of hope and fear;
The wonders of death and sadness,
All the wonders of time are there.

In your lone lake's still face yonder,
By your rivulet's bursting glee,
Deep truth I may read and ponder,
Of the earth and its mystery.

267

There seems, in yon city's motion,
Yet a mightier truth for me;
'Tis the sound of life's great ocean,
'Tis the tides of the human sea.

O'er the fields of earth lie scattered,
Noble fruitage and blossoms rare;
Yon city the store has gathered,

And the garner of hearts is there.

You may prize the lonely lustre

Of your pearl or emerald green;
What is that to the gorgeous cluster

On the brow of the crowned Queen?

And the home to which I'm hasting,
Is not in some silent glen;
The place where my hopes are resting,

Is a city of living men.

The crowds are there; but the sadness
Is fled, with the toil and pain;

Nought is heard but the song of gladness,-
"Tis the city of holy men.