I have read of the sweet olden story,
Of the fair, happy Eden above;
Of the beautiful mansions of glory,
In the bright golden city of love.
Oh, the sweet olden story
Of the fair, happy Eden above;
Of the beautiful mansions of glory,
In the bright golden city of love.
I have read of the clear sparkling river,
Bursting out 'neath the great throne of God;
How its sweet waters glide on forever,
Making glad all the host of the Lord.
I have read how the banks of that river,
By the saints and the angels are trod,
How their glorious anthems forever,

O had I love-inspiring eyes
As brightly blue as summer skies:
Rich locks flowing wave on wave,
Lips ‘whose hue, angry and brave’
Makes the rose less fair to see,
A form of finest symmetry,
Such as angels wear above,—
Then, then I'd pray to be thy love.

O were I of a home possest
Like fabled islands of the blest,
Where nobler woods and purer streams,
And meads enriched with gladder beams
Than earth can boast or poets feign,
Outshone the gold of Saturn's reign,
I'd pray the gods on bended knee
That thou might'st share that home with me.

Sing, oh my soul, to the Lord, thy Redeemer,
Sing of the love that he beareth for thee;
Tell to the world how he scattered the darkness,
Tell how he suffered and died on the tree.
Tell to the world of his blessed salvation,
Tell of the fountain that cleanseth from sin;
Tell of the joy like a deep flowing river,
Filling the heart that has Jesus within.
Sing, oh my soul, of this wonderful Saviour,
Mighty and willing to cleanse and to save;
Tell of his power thy soul to deliver,
Tell how in triumph he conquered the grave.

Well dost thou, Love, thy solemn Feast to hold
In vestal February;
Not rather choosing out some rosy day
From the rich coronet of the coming May,
When all things meet to marry!
O, quick, praevernal Power
That signall'st punctual through the sleepy mould
The Snowdrop's time to flower,
Fair as the rash oath of virginity
Which is first-love's first cry;
O, Baby Spring,
That flutter'st sudden 'neath the breast of Earth
A month before the birth;
Whence is the peaceful poignancy,
The joy contrite,
Sadder than sorrow, sweeter than delight,

My love, my wife, three months ago
I joined the fight in London town.
I haven't conquered yet, you know,
And friends are few, and hope is low;
Far off I see the shining crown.

I'm daunted, dear; but blow on blow
With ebbing force I strike, and so
I am not felled and trodden down,
My love, my wife!

I wonder when the tide will flow,
Sir Oracle cease saying “No,”
And Fortune smile away her frown.
Well, while I swim I cannot drown;
And while we sleep the harvests grow,
My love, my wife.

A placid lake dreamed the dull days away
In Scotland's leafy heart, the wild deer's home,
Yet never knew the ecstasy of foam,
The curl of waves, or the grim tempest's sway.

But storms encompassed it one fatal day,
The snaky lightnings o'er its bank did roam,
And to its sheltering snow-girt cedars clomb,
Stirring the blue depths in wild disarray.

Like that calm lake, my heart serenely dreamed,
Unconscious of alarm, until you came,
Leading Love with you, vigorous and free;
Then the strong lights of passion grandly gleamed,

When I gaze upon the sky
And the sea below, I cry,
Thus be poetry and love,
Deep beneath and bright above.

Our Mothers, lovely women pitiful;
Our Sisters, gracious in their life and death;
To us each unforgotten memory saith:
“Learn as we learned in life's sufficient school,
Work as we worked in patience of our rule,
Walk as we walked, much less by sight than faith,
Hope as we hoped, despite our slips and scathe,
Fearful in joy and confident in dule.”
I know not if they see us or can see;
But if they see us in our painful day,
How looking back to earth from Paradise
Do tears not gather in those loving eyes?—

O how I love Thy holy law!
'Tis daily my delight;
And thence my meditations draw
Divine advice by night.

How doth Thy Word my heart engage!
How well employ my tongue,
And in my tiresome pilgrimage
Yields me a heavenly song.

When nature sinks, and spirits droop,
Thy promises of grace
Are pillars to support my hope,
And there I write Thy praise.

L OVE'S torments sought a place of rest,
Where all might drear and lonely be;
They found ere long my desert breast,
And nestled in its vacancy.