w take thee to thy heaven and sing
A virelay for thy deliverance,
Sweet vireo of the olive wing!

{49}

Fresh sprig of greenest southernwood,
Thou call'st me back to my childhood!
Thy aromatic odors waken
A thousand echoes. I hear the good

Old man of God, long-haired and tall,
In the old church, to great and small,
His lightning message give, and listen
The echoing thunder that rolled o'er all.

The tiny child twirls oft its spray
Of southernwood,--'tis a far day,
Yet fresh I smell the keen aroma,
See arms ahovering--"Let us pray!"

{50}

I feel the season's dreamy call
In hawkbit, asters, 'pyeweed tall,--
Glory of August ere September
Trumpet the note of the hasting fall.

A flash in crystal waters cold--
O dream in silver, red, and gold--
The speckled trout above the gravel
Lies by the rock where the stream is rolled!

Grasshoppers chirp and crickets chir,
The rich-tagged alders nod and pur,
The kine bells drowse the distant pasture,--
All nature waits for the coming stir.

{51}

This golden-browed September land
Is rich of heart and free of hand;
Fresh from the mint of God, and taintless,
Are flung her guineas of gold, like sand.

Here where the road winds round the hill,
And down beside the tidal mill,
Marsh goldenrod and its plumed sister
Their spangled ore in a largess spill.

The Sabbath sabbatize, said He,--
This gold is sacred unto me,--
Rich gift of God unknown of mammon,
Kingdom of Heaven by the roadside, free!

{52}

I keep one picture in my heart,
To be of life a cherished part,--
A picture waiting yet its canvas
From master hand of divinest art:

A wan blind man and Christ sun-brown,
Hand in His hand, are walking down
The thronged street into the open
Beyond the walls of Bethsaida town.

Light of the world with night in kiss!
Pathetic scene--a scene of bliss!
The rayless eyes are touched to healing!
Was ever picture so sweet as this?

{53}

As turns my heart its crimson leaves,
And life's own diary freshly weaves,
I see the pages glow intenser,
A wondrous story my bosom heaves.

Beneath the careless lines there writ
Appear in beauty, clear, sunlit,
Mysterious Love's own tender story,
How this poor heart to His own was knit.

Mine, mine, while moons the waters move!
Mine, while Heaven lasts