d is the soil,
Dear are the hills of God.

"Far better in its place the lowliest bird
Should sing aright to him the lowliest song,
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word
And sing his glory wrong."

"But like a river, blest where'er it flows,
Be still receiving while it still bestows."
"That life
Goes best with those who take it best.
--it is well
For us to be as happy as we can!"

"Work is its own best earthly meed,
Else have we none more than the sea-born throng
Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar."

The London press said: "Miss Ingelow's new volume exhibits abundant
evidence that time, study, and devotion to her vocation have both
elevated and welcomed the powers of the most gifted poetess we
possess, now that Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Adelaide Proctor sing
no more on earth. Lincolnshire has claims to be considered the Arcadia
of England at present, having given birth to Mr. Tennyson and our
present Lady Laureate."

The press of America was not less cordial. "Except Mrs. Browning, Jean
Ingelow is first among the women whom the world calls poets," said the
_Independent_.

The songs touched the popular heart, and some, set to music, were sung
at numberless firesides. Who has not heard the _Sailing beyond Seas?_

"Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sails unfurled;
I said, 'I will sail to my love this night
At the other side of the world.'
I stepped aboard,--we sailed so fast,--
The sun shot up from the bourne;
But a dove that perched upon the mast
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.

O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white breast,
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.

"My love! He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet.
Methought he said, 'In this fair land,
O, is it thus we meet?
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place,--no part,--
No dwelling more by sea or shore!
But only in thy heart!'

O fair dove! O fond dove!
Till night rose over the bourne,
The dove on the mast as we sailed past,
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn."

Edmund Clarence Stedman, one of the ablest and fairest among American
critics, says: "As the voice of Mrs. Browning grew sile