That faith which makes us one

Shall bear this spirit on
To dwell with thee and God beyond the sky.
^



S4 WOODLAND RAMBLES.
THE BROOK.
/^FT I mind me of a scene
^-^ Once I saw, oh ! years ago ;
It was a dreamy dell, the sheen

Of Phoebus, in his dying glow.
Shed 'round a holy influence
That seemed to magnetize each sense.
It was a mellow eve in June,
And the balmy atmosphere

Strove to set the heart in tune
With the freshness of the year;

And a mystic, warm delight

Seemed to image all things bright*

I sat within the sylvan shade.
Watching the pearly brooklet flow.
As soft, meandering through the glade.
In mellow cadence, mild and low.
Its gurgling waters sang a song

That lives with me my whole life long.
WOODLAND RAMBLES. 85

Maybe it was my angel's voice
That in those waters sweet I heard ;

For, truly, oft our God makes choice
Of tongueless things to speak His word.
And may not, too, the sighing trees

Reveal deep-hidden mysteries ?



Mutely as the stars abide

Within the distant realms of space,
And all so solemn as they glide.
How softly o'er the soul they trace
A feeling at which man is awed —
The mystic consciousness of God !

So was it, in the years gone by.
That brooklet whispered strange to me,
And oh ! its words shall ever lie

Deep-graven on my memory —
A mystic message sent from Him
To light me when my lamp grows dim.
86 WOODLAND RAMBLES,



THEN AND NOW.
/^NCE, when the sky was studded o'er
^^ With silver, starry splendor,
We left the little cottage door
To ramble by the pebbly shore,
And whisper accents tender.
