He who hath felt Life's mystery Press on him like thick night, Whose soul hath known no history But struggling after light;-- He who hath seen dim shapes arise In the soundless depths of soul, Which gaze on him with meaning eyes Full of the mighty whole, Yet will no word of healing speak, Although he pray night-long, "O, help me, save me! I am weak, And ye are wondrous strong!"-- Who, in the midnight dark and deep, Hath felt a voice of might Come echoing through the halls of sleep From the lone heart of Night, And, starting from his restless bed, Hath watched and wept to know What meant that oracle of dread That stirred his being so; He who hath felt how strong and great This Godlike soul of man, And looked full in the eyes of Fate, Since Life and Thought began; The armor of whose moveless trust Knoweth no spot of weakness, Who hath trod fear into the dust Beneath the feet of meekness;-- He who hath calmly borne his cross, Knowing himself the king Of time, nor counted it a loss To learn by suffering;-- And who hath worshipped woman still With a pure soul and lowly, Nor ever hath in deed or will Profaned her temple holy-- He is the Poet, him unto The gift of song is given, Whose life is lofty, strong, and true, He is the Poet, from his lips To live forevermore, Majestical as full-sailed ships, The words of Wisdom pour. FLOWERS. "Hail be thou, holie hearbe, Growing on the ground, All in the mount Calvary First wert thou found; Thou art good for manie a sore, Thou healest manie a wound, In the name of sweete Jesus I take thee from the ground." --_Ancient Charm-verse._ I. When, from a pleasant ramble, home Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, I pluck some wayside flower And press it in the choicest nook Of a much-loved and oft-read book; And, when upon its leaves I look In a less happy hour, Dear memory bears me far away Unto her fairy bower, And on her breast my head I lay, While, in a motherly, sweet strain, She sings me gently back again To by-gone feelings, until they Seem children born of yesterday. II.