Like the purple lightning playing with the stars in yon blue

sky ;

Things we love, because they tell us of the loving heart

within,

Feelings of the inmost fountain far beyond the touch of

sin;

These, they say, are human frailties, frailties born of sense

and time,

But will be no more remember'd when we reach our native

clime.

There, they say, we all are one, and none can love thee least or best,

But as brethren all are equal through the myriads of the

blest.

It may be an idle question — be my wayward heart for

given

How earth's love shall wear the gorgeous bright apparelling

of heaven.

It may be we are too venturous, for the light is faint and

dim,

And but little knows the pilgrim of the life of seraphim. Yet I love to think, mine own one, I shall love thee there

as here,

Best of all created beings, best of all that angel sphere.

Read we not of earth the seed-time for the glorious world to come?

Faith receiving there her guerdon, sin her saddest dreariest

doom?

Have not all the things of lifetime issues infinite above? And shall love reap there no harvest of the scatter'd seeds of love?

What if now we steep affection oft in weeping, oft in

sighs,

They who sow in tears, beloved, reap the rapture of the

skies.

True that we can tell but little how the full flood-tide of

love

Swells from out a thousand rivulets in a thousand hearts

above;

True we know not now the rapture, nor a thousandth thou

sandth part,

Seeing Him we loved unseen, and face to face and heart to

heart,

Not a cloud to dim that sunshine, there no sorrow, no alarms, But around thee and beneath thee spread the Everlasting

arms.

There untravell'd worlds of beauty slow unfolding on our

sight,

Spann'd by heaven's eternal rainbow, interwoven love and

light.

But those glories none may utter: how should I then tell it

thee?

For how faint and far the glimmerings of the waves of heaven's Light-sea!

Yet, mine own one, tell me truly, think'st thou we shall love

the less?

Will that ocean whelm the fountains of thine own true

heartedness?

Hark, thy beating heart makes answer in its old familiar

tone,

"All thine own on earth, beloved, and in glory all thine

own."

Watton, 1844.

THOU art leaving the home of thy childhood, Sweet sister mine:

Is the song of the bird of the wild wood

Faint and far as thine?

Listless stray thy fingers through the chords,
Thy voice falters in the old familiar words;
What wilt thou for the young glad voices
Wherewith our earliest home rejoices?
A father's smile benign,

A mother's love divine,

Sweet sister mine?

II.

Lay thy hand upon thy mouth, brother,

Lay thy hand upon thy mouth;

One word thou hast spoken, - but another
Were perhaps too much for truth.

Home is left- oh yes, if leaving

Be when home is in our heart:

Grieving

yes, 'tis grief, if grieving

Be for those who cannot part.

We are one, brother, we are one,—

Since first the golden cord was spun:
It may lengthen, but it cannot sever,

For, brother, it was twined

and twined for ever.

III.

Sister, touch again thy passionate lute
Chide no more · - chide no more:

Sooner far my voice were ever mute,

Than to whisper our fond love were o'er.
But I grieve for hours gone by,

Of heart to heart, and eye to eye;
Oh, we cannot have the joy of meeting
Day by day thy sunny, smiling greeting;