June 3.

True, our converse a stranger is to speech; Only the practiced ear can catch the surging words That break and die upon thy pebbled lips. Thy flow of thought is noiseless as the lapse of thy own waters, Wafted as is the morning mist up from thy surface, So that the passive Soul doth breathe it in, And is infected with the truth thou wouldst express.

E'en the remotest stars have come in troops And stooped low to catch the benediction Of thy countenance. Oft as the day came round, Impartial has the sun exhibited himself Before thy narrow skylight; nor has the moon For cycles failed to roll this way As oft as elsewhither, and tell thee of the night. No cloud so rare but hitherward it stalked, And in thy face looked doubly beautiful. O! tell me what the winds have writ for the last thousand years On the blue vault that spans thy flood, Or sun transferred and delicately reprinted For thy own private reading. Somewhat Within these latter days I've read, But surely there was much that would have thrilled the Soul, Which human eye saw not. I would give much to read that first bright page, Wet from a virgin press, when Eurus, Boreas, And the host of airy quill-drivers First dipped their pens in mist.

June 14.

Truth, Goodness, Beauty,—those celestial thrins, Continually are born; e'en now the Universe, With thousand throats, and eke with greener smiles, Its joy confesses at their recent birth.

Strange that so many fickle gods, as fickle as the weather, Throughout Dame Nature's provinces should always pull together.

June 16.

In the busy streets, domains of trade, Man is a surly porter, or a vain and hectoring bully, Who can claim no nearer kindredship with me Than brotherhood by law.