aside, Bright in his rosy glow,

And wide a splendor streamed through all the sky;

O'er sea and land one soft, delicious

Slow faded the sweet light, and peacefully
The quiet stars came out, one after one:
The holy twilight fell upon the sea,
The summer day was done.

Such unalloyed delight its hours had given,

Musing, this thought rose in my grateful mind,

That God, who watches all things, up in heaven,

With patient eyes and kind,

Saw and was pleased, perhaps, one child of his

Dared to be happy like the little birds, Because He gave his children days like this,

Rejoicing beyond words;

Dared, lifting up to Him untroubled eyes Ingratitude that worship is, and prayer, Sing and be glad with ever new surprise, He made his world so fair!

SUBMISSION.

THE sparrow sits and sings, and sings; Softly the sunset's lingering light

Lies rosy over rock and turf, And reddens where the restless surf Tosses on high its plumes of white.

Gently and clear the sparrow sings,

While twilight steals across the sea,

WILLIAM MORRIS.

And still and bright the evening star Twinkles above the golden bar That in the west lies quietly.

O, steadfastly the sparrow sings,

And sweet the sound; and sweet the
touch

Of wooing winds; and sweet the sight
Of happy Nature's deep delight
In her fair spring, desired so much!

But while so clear the sparrow sings
A cry of death is in my ear;

The crashing of the riven wreck,
Breakers that sweep the shuddering
deck,

And sounds of agony and fear.
How is it that the birds can sing?

Life is so full of bitter pain;
Hearts are so wrung with hopeless
grief;

Woe is so long and joy so brief;
Nor shall the lost return again.

Though rapturously the sparrow sings,
No bliss of Nature can restore

The friends whose hands I clasped

297

The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,

Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.

Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry

Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!'

Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June,

Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, Striving to swell the burden of the tune That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,

Unmindful of the past or coming days; Who sing, "O joy! a new year is begun! What happiness to look upon the sun!"

Q, what begetteth all this storm of bliss, But Death himself, who, crying solemnly, Even from the heart of sweet Forgetful

ness,