That hope is present in our land,
For many a sacred shrine is there;
Time-honored old cathedrals stand;
Each village has its house of prayer.

O'er all the realm one creed is spread

One name adored—one altar known.

If souls there be in doubt, or dread,
Alas! the darkness is their own.

The priest whose heart is in his toil
Hath here a task of hope and love;

He dwells upon his native soil,
He has his native sky above.

Not so beneath this foreign sky:
Not so upon this burning strand;
Where yonder giant temples lie,
The miracles of mortal hand.

Mighty and beautiful, but given
To idols of a creed profane,

That cast the shade of earth on heaven,
By fancies monstrous, vile, and vain.

The votary here must half unlearn
The accents of his mother tongue;
Must dwell 'mid strangers, and must earn
Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung.

His words on hardened hearts must fall,
Hardened till God's appointed hour;

Yet he must wait, and watch o'er all,

Till hope grows faith, and prayer has power.

And many a grave neglected lies,

Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord;

Who perished 'neath the sultry skies,

Where first they preached that sacred word.

But not in vain-their toil was blest;

Life's dearest hope by them was won;

A blessing is upon their rest,

And on the work which they begun.

Yon city, where our purer creed

Was a thing unnamed, unknown,
Has now a sense of deeper need,
Has now a place of prayer its own.

And many a darkened mind has light,
And many a stony heart has tears;
The morning breaking o'er the night,
So long upon those godless spheres.

Our prayers be with them-we who know
The value of a soul to save,

Must pray for those, who seek to show

The Heathen Hope beyond the grave.

THE WISHING GATE.

WISHES, no! I have not one,
Hope's sweet toil with me is done;
One by one have flitted by,
All the rainbows of the sky.
Not a star could now unfold
Aught I once wished to be told.
What have I to seek of thee?
Not a wish remains for me.

Let the soldier pause to ask,
Honor on his glorious task;
Let the parting sailor crave

A free wild wind across the wave;
Let the maiden pause to frame
Blessings on some treasured name;
Let them breathe their hopes in thee,
Not a wish remains for me.

Not a wish! beat not my heart,

Thou hast not bade thy dreams depart;

They have past, but left behind

Weary spirit, wasted mind.

Ah! if this old charm were sooth,
One wish yet might tax its truth;

I would ask, however vain,
Never more to wish again

THE SHEPHERD BOY.

LIKE some vision olden
Of far other time,

When the age was golden,
In the young world's prime
Is thy soft pipe ringing,
O lonely shepherd boy,
What song art thou singing,
In thy youth and joy?

Or art thou complaining

Of thy lowly lot,

And thine own disdaining,

Dost ask what thou hast not?

Of the future dreaming,

Weary of the past,

For the present scheming,

All but what thou hast.

No, thou art delighting
In thy summer home,
Where the flowers inviting
Tempt the bee to roam;
Where the cowslip bending,
With its golden bells,
Of each glad hour's ending
With a sweet chime tells.

All wild creatures love him

When he is alone, Every bird above him

Sings its softest tone. Thankful to high Heaven, Humble in thy joy, Much to thee is given, Lowly shepherd boy.

THE WOODLAND BROOK.

THOU art flowing, thou art flowing,
O small and silvery brook;
The rushes by thee growing,
And with a patient look

The pale narcissus o'er thee bends
Like one who asks in vain for friends.

I bring not back my childhood,

Sweet comrade of its hours; The music of the wild wood, The color of the flowers;

Tney do not bring again the dream That haunted me beside thy stream.

When black-lettered old romances

Made a world for me alone; O, days of lovely fancies,

Are ye forever flown?