Heavenly innocence is now Marked upon thy peaceful brow: God's own Spirit filleth thee, Sainted babe; for thou art he, Who before the Lamb shall go, Crying, that the world may know He hath life to give the dead, In the blood he comes to shed! Though, from nature wild and rude, Come thy raiment, rest, and food, Nightly o'er thy desert sleep, Angels shall their vigils keep; Through the wilderness by day, They will guard and lead the way; Till to Israel thou appear, Showing heaven's mild kingdom near. High and glorious, then, the part For thine eye, and hand, and heart! When thy feet, on Jordan's side, Feel the waters, as they glide, Thou the Son of God shalt see, Come to be baptized of thee-- Hear him named, and see the Dove Resting on him from above! HYMN TO SOLITUDE. O solitude, holy and calm! From tumult and crowds breaking free, I fly, sick and sad, for the balm I find given only by thee. Too oft from thy peace I depart, Kind guardian, friend of my soul,-- And then bring an earth-wounded heart For thee to bind up and make whole. My spirit, now worn and oppressed, Her wings in thy bosom hath furled, To sink, as a bird in its nest, Away from a cold, faithless world! Alarmed at the shade and the chill, That o'er me its visions have cast, I here would lie lowly and still, Till sorrow's dark night hours are past. And then, from the dust may I rise, To mount, as the lark from her sod; And sing, as the morn of my skies Appears in the smile of my God. O solitude, sacred and sweet; Whilst thus in thy bosom I lie, Earth's baubles are under my feet-- My heart and its treasure, on high. THE BIBLE IN THE FIELDS. I love to take this holy book, In summer's balmy hours, To study it beside the brook, Or by the trees and flowers. For here I read about the God, Who made this world so fair, The skies--the stream--the grassy sod And bloom, that scents the air. The birds flit round, and sweetly sing Of him, who feeds them all,-- Who lifts the towering eagle's wing, And marks the sparrow's fall. The violet, from its soft green bed, To speak his goodness too, Presents its tender, purple head Baptized with silvery dew. And here the busy bee I view, As she comes swiftly by, And seems to ask, if she should do More work, or good than I. Her waxen house betimes to build I see her wisely bent; And then, with bread and honey filled To have it, still intent. The bees I find their sweets supplied In wild Judea's land, To feed the Baptist, when he cried, "Heaven's kingdom is at hand."