What now we like, anon we disapprove:
The new successor drives away old Love.

She moves in tumult; round her lies
The silence of the world of grace;
The twilight of our mysteries
Shines like high noonday on her face;
Our piteous guesses, dim with fears,
She touches, handles, sees, and hears.

In her all longings mix and meet;
Dumb souls through her are eloquent;
She feels the world beneath her feet
Thrill in a passionate intent;
Through her our tides of feeling roll
And find their God within her soul.

Her faith the awful Face of God
Brightens and blinds with utter light;
Her footsteps fall where late He trod;

Discovery, and Science, and Invention—
The gods of modern progress—wonders three!
Who dare say, “This surpasses your pretension?”
Or, “Here your end shall be?”

Each day puts on some newer mode or fashion,
And old things suffer change, or take their leave—
Yea, everything but sentiment and passion:
They are as old as Eve.

From zone to zone the lightning bears our message—
But Right and Wrong no better understood:
O'er sea and land we speed with eagle passage—
No readier to do good.

Ah, what avails the progress? what reliance

O that I were the wee herd loon
That basks upo' yon sunny lea!
Ilk ither wish I wad lay doon,
A laddie herdin' kye to be

I'd lose the little lear' I ha'e,
And learn the herdie's simple arts—
To build a housie 'mang the strae;
To mak' wee neep and tawtie carts;

To mak' a kep o' rashies green,
And learn the herdie's gleesome lauch;
To mak' a rattle for the wean,
Or cut a whistle o' the sauch;

To licht a fire upon the muir,
That a' the herdies may sit doon;
Or set the whins on bleezin' fire,
That a' the herdies may rin roun';

Here Cromwell stood, that dark and frowning night,
Hemm'd in upon this desperate tongue of land,
The sea behind, the sea on either hand,
And, fronting him, the foe on yonder height
What chance for Cromwell in to-morrow's fight,
If thus the order of the battle stand!
He was but captain, the supreme command
He knew was His who, to the most lorn right,
Oft gives mysterious victory. And so,
Arm'd with this faith, of fear he never dream'd.
For ever with that man a Power there seem'd,
That conquer'd first the judgment of his foe,

Let now your soul in this substantial world
Some anchor strike. Be here the body moored:—
This spectacle immutably from now
The picture in your eye; and when time strikes,
And the green scene goes on the instant blind—
The ultimate helpers, where your horse to-day
Conveyed you dreaming, bear your body dead.

Slip away to Slumber Land,
Baby, O, my baby,
Weary little foot and hand,
Baby, O, my baby;
You shall have a rattle, and
A woolly dog, a dragon grand:—
Finest fellow in the land,
Baby, O, my baby.

Cuddle down and close your eyes,
Baby, O, my baby,
See how snugly there he lies,
Baby, O, my baby;
Stars are peeping from the skies,—
How one so young can be so wise,
Is mightiest of mysteries,
Baby, O, my baby.

I T'S very, very queer the way
They call this, Night, and that, the Day,
And then to parcel off the space,
And give each Week a little place.

And then reduce to months and years,
Our sorrows, blisses, hopes and fears;
'Tis very, very strange to me,
That such a foolish thing should be.

My calendar and clock shall go,
I want no dates of joy or woe,
The dawn and dusk together blend,
And stars shine out unto the end.

And this is all; life is so sweet,
So grand, so glorious and complete,
So wrought of love and ecstacy,—

Mild is the air of April,
Gentle the sky above,
And the budding and the mating
Call for a song of love;
But the season on my singing
Has lost its olden spell
Because of a shame and sorrow
Men close their eyes to tell.

I see but the tears of women
In the rain of the springtime flood;
I cannot brook the flowers—
They only smell of blood.
Sad is the playground frolic—
Its joy and laughter melt
In the moan of children sobbing
From jungle and from veldt.

O ye in the halls of council,
You may conquer the distant foe,

For me, true son of Erin, thou art rife,
Grand coast of Cornwall, cliff, and cave, and surge,
With glamour of the Kelt. Strong sons at strife
With wind and wave if healthier influence purge
Not wholly yet from wrecker's blood, nor merge
All in mild manners, yet there do not fail
Ancestral hero hearts and lives to urge
Their native virtue, that will never pale
In any strait, nor cringe, nor need to wear a veil.

Tired hearts' refreshment, friend, glad life was mine
Hearing rich music in Lamorna's bower;
And where thy whelming, tawny dunes incline