thee
All power near and far,--
The rosy dawning's light to be,
The brightest Morning Star.

TO ESTELLE

Coy, sweet maid, I love so well,
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee--love thee true--
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun--
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!

Ah! my heart love's passions swell
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace--
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!

Now I smite my lyre to swell
For Estelle;
Music's most entrancing spell
O'er Estelle.
With my fingers on my keys,
Like the balmy morning breeze
Stealing softly through the grain,
Will I gently wake a strain
For Estelle!

How I love my little belle,
My Estelle!
Deepest in my sacred dell
Is Estelle!
I esteem my maiden love
More than angels high above,
More than demons in the sea;
Love is light and life to me,
And Estelle!

A SONG OF THANKS

For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the beaded wheat and the fattened swine,
For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,
For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe,
For the swan which floats near the river-banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam,
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham,
For the plum and the peach and the apple red,
For the dear old press where the wine is tread,
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,
And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn,
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,
For the game which hide in the shady nooks,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,--
Lord God of Hos