THE CRY OF THE UNSATISFIED.

O SING, Sweet lark, some calmer, sadder song!
Thy melody awakes

A grief unsuited to the dawn and thee;

My heart, my poor heart breaks!

Its pain doth foully wrong

The golden glory of the sun-lit sea;

The long fields sloping to the ridg'd sea-sand

Take up the light, and send it through the land. Above their waving grain I hear and see,

Climbing the air with ardent wings,

Thy spirit-form that shouts and sings,

Enraptur'd with the joy the scarlet sunrise brings. But I,

Forgetting all the morning-grace,

And hiding in the chill sand-drift my face,

Moan out, "O night, too, too soon dead,

Oh! whither art thou fled?

Be silent, lark, or soar so high

Thy notes may fade away and die ;
Let, rather, from yon tamarisk-grove,
The nightingale, that lover-bird,
Sing low of unrequited love

In strains more sweet and sad than cold Earth

ever heard!"

A SPRING SORROW.

THIS morn I linger'd long

Beside the alders tall that gleam

Across the stream;

And grief did make the warbler's song

And all the sunny life of early May,

So blithe and gay,

A heavy dream;

Whilst Faith aye strove

In vain, alas! to reach the Love

That ruleth in eternal fulness strong.

For one, my Heart of hearts, whose life, With all its hope and innocence,

Is as a spring in everlasting strife

With this cold world,

Lay low in pain, indued with little sense

Of all the bliss and glow,

The blue above, the radiant green below,
By Spring unfurl'd.

May He, who trod the furnace fierce

With three who dared the Babylonish death, Enable her to pierce

The heavy clouds by mortal anguish rais'd,
That in this fiery trial of her faith

She may find Him with low and gentle voice
With her sad spirit walking ever nigh,
And with His comfort bidding her rejoice;
That she, renewed from on high,

As if on Him, her Saviour, she had gaz'd,

To me may come,

A calm and happy soul unapt to rove; Completing all our joy in this sweet home, Amid these wooded glades,

With tearful memories of the care and love

Of Him who rears for us a home above,
That never fades !

TINTAGEL.

On the dark ridges of the granite steep
I stood in thought, above the moaning sea,
While spirits of the unweary deep

In sun and wind were swathing me:
Round me no mirth nor human jollity

Broke the great solemn silence; yet I knew
An awful joy went throbbing through

Each ledge of rock, each curl of rippling foam :
Then to my soul the thrilling gladness flew,
And I shall bear through years to come,

Hid in dim avenues of memory,

The splendour of that visionary sleep.