peaks of Time.
Peace--that doth hush the throbbing voice of life,
Till through the stillness of the Poet's soul,
The echoes of Seraphic harmonies
Float like a spirit through the blue eterne."
I said--"I will sit neath the ancient woods,
And list unto the voices of the winds
Coming from far o'er spirit lands, and full
With stolen snatches of their utterance."
I said--"I will lay bare my soul unto the sun,
And let its glory rest there till it charm
Forth from its womb, as flowers from the cold ground,
All lovely thoughts and high imaginings
That shed sweet perfume o'er the waste of life.
And when the sickle of autumnal time
Gathereth in the harvest of ripe thought,
Nourish and strengthen long futurity."

Then as an eagle fleeth to his crag
High in the stillness of the dim cloudland,
Fled I from man into the trackless woods,
To sate my soul with quietude and song.
Then, too, ye saw me, ye pure orbs of heaven,
And sent your blessed radiance to my heart
In the still twilight of my calm content!
Then came an answer to the unseen voice--
"O holy calmness of the inner soul!
Treasure of treasures! sweetness of all sense!
Athwart the smoothness of whose liquid tide
Floateth the spirit of eternal love,
Tracing a pathway to the All-Divine!
Thine is the perfectness of earthly bliss,
The brimming of life's chalice o'er with peace,
Till thro' all thought and feeling, the pure draught
Sheddeth its gladness and serenity.
Thine is a joyance passing utterance,
A deep delight, that like the songs of heaven,
Swell through its fulness, but are mute without.
Thou art the goal of most sublime desire,
The haven that all longing seeketh for,
Where, shaded from the storms and blasts of life,
The bark glides gently down the stream of Time."

How cloudless is this azure firmament!
Brighter than all the dreams of sinless youth!
Deeper than the deep heart of woman's love!
Now as I gaze upon each shining star,
What visions steal upon me with its rays,
Of that which makes its glorious excellence!
Can there be revelation of high truths
But through the channels of weak sense alone,
Thus like a fountain filt'ring thro' the clay.
Or doth the soul hold converse spiritual
With powers unseen that fill the universe,
Receiving, as by intuition, things
That man attains not by intelligence?
Is not the spirit perfect in itself,
Unmingle