Deep in agony of soul Mother-love cries up to Thee— Fiends have bound him to the bowl— O, break his chains and set him free! The Portrait. O, arms of protection, now folded so still!— Alone in the world, so wide and so chill! O, eyes that would glow in a worshipful gaze!— They’ll bless me no more with their love-beaming rays! O, heart of devotion! thy warm throbbings o’er Can give me asylum from sorrow no more. * * * * * O, veil it!—this lifeless creation of art— The perfect is sacredly shrined in my heart! Not silent, compassionless, framed in with gold, Nor mantled with shadows of coffin and mould, But youthful and strong and warm with the fire That glows in a soul lit with noble desire. Ay, thought gropeth not thro’ the darkness and gloom Where the mortal is held in the bonds of the tomb. PROGRESSION is stamped by the hand of God’s love; The life coming after to this is _above_! Our faith reaches up to the realms of bliss, The sphere He has fashioned—the Home beyond this. The deeds that gave blessing in the pathways of earth Give impress and form to the Heavenly birth. That face, beaming ever with the glorified light Won here, in defending convictions of Right, My soul, in its holy of holies, where free From earth’s thronging distractions in spirit I see. This portrait I gaze on—the glorified one— And that is, to this, as a star, to the sun. Out in the Woods. Glad haunts of the summer!—the dim forest aisles, Where Sylva receives us with welcoming smiles— Gives couch of soft mosses, embowered with vines, And smoothes from the forehead, care’s deep written lines. Refreshing, she brings, for the world-weary brain And soothes, with her silence, its fever and pain!— Bids Somnus pour sweets from which restfulness flows, And, hushing her realm into holiest calm, She lulls the sick soul into gentle repose, While winds, with the leafage, are chanting a psalm That charms with its rythm. Rev’ry’s doorways unclose— We slip to forgetfulness—sleep that is balm. * * * * * The musical tinkle of the murmuring stream Gave warp, for the web, of a beautiful dream, And woof for the weaving, the slumber-god chose From fragrance of violets, and queenly wild-rose. The sunshine that sifted thro’ the crowns of the trees, Made threadings of gold with the shadows of these! The breeze, touching lightly, with cool finger tips Was the kiss of an angel on the tired spirit’s lips. O, the eider-down couches of slumberous ease, And the tapestried halls that the millionaires please, Can never, such rest, on the weary bestow, As we find in this palace, where the luxuries grow.