Then his Deity came in the morning’s flame, In the song of the sun-lit seas, In the stars at night, in the noontide light, In the woods and the murmuring breeze. To the Great Divine at the idol shrine, By each and by every name, Through the fiery death or the prayerful breath, The worship was still the same. Like a grain in the sod grew the thought of God, As Nature’s slow work appears; From the zoöphyte small, to the “Lord of all,” Through cycles and sums of years. But the dark grew bright, and the night grew light, When the era of Truth began, And the soul was taught, through its primal thought, _Of the life of God in man_. Then the soul arose from her long repose, At the Truth’s awakening breath, And fearlessly trod as a child of God, Triumphant o’er Time and Death. There came a sound from the wide world round, Like the surging of the sea, Majestic and deep in its onward sweep-- ’Twas the anthem of the free. Through the ages dim has that holy hymn Come down to our listening ears; And still shall it float with a sweeter note Through the vista of coming years. And a voice makes known from the viewless throne, “As it hath been, shall it be-- On! on from the past! still on to the last! Like a river that seeks the sea.” “Hour by hour, like an opening flower, Shall truth after truth expand; The sun may grow pale, and the stars may fail, But the purpose of God shall stand. Dogmas and creeds without kindred deeds, And altar and fane, shall fall; One bond of love, and one home above, And one faith shall be to all.” THE PYRAMIDS. “I was weary, very weary; but when I leaned against the Pyramids, _they_ gave me strength.”--KOSCIELSKI. A WANDERER from his childhood’s home, An exile from his father-land, His weary feet were doomed to roam Far o’er the desert’s scorching sand. No mother o’er his pillow smiled, No sister’s hand a blessing lent; His only couch the desert wild, His only home an Arab tent. Upon the classic shores of Greece, And by the imperial towers of Rome, He vainly sought to find that peace Denied him in his childhood’s home. Beneath Lake Leman’s watery bed, In Chillon’s dungeon damp and low, Communing with the mighty dead, His spirit felt a kindred glow. He drank Circassia’s breath of bloom, He climbed the Alps’ eternal snows, He plucked the leaves by Virgil’s tomb, And stood where ancient Jordan flows. And where Napoleon’s falchion gleamed Along the borders of the Nile, The pilgrim exile slept, and dreamed He saw his own loved mother’s smile.