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346     MARY E. HEWITT.

GREEN PLACES IN THE CITY.

YE fill my heart with gladness, verdant places,
That 'mid the City greet me, where I pass;
Methinks I see of angel-steps the traces,
Where'er upon my pathway springs the grass.
I pause before your gates at early morning,
When lies the sward with glittering sheen o'erspread;
And think the dew-drops there each blade adorning,
Are angel's tears for mortal frailty shed.

And ye—earth's firstlings—here in beauty springing,
Erst in your cells by careful winter nursed—
And to the morning heaven your incense flinging,
As at His smile ye forth in gladness burst—
How do ye cheer with hope my lonely hour,
When on my way I tread despondingly;
With thought that HE who careth for the flower,
Will, in His mercy, still remember me.

Breath of our nostrils—THOU! whose love embraces—
Whose light shall never from our souls depart,
Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis
Amid the arid desert of my heart.
Thy sun and rain call forth the bud of promise,
And with fresh leaves in spring time deck the tree;
That where man's hand hath shut out nature from us,
We, by these glimpses, may remember THEE!

THE OCEAN-TIDE TO THE RIVULET.

MY voice is hoarse with calling to the deep,
While, as I bore me on with measured sweep
To where beneath the jutting cape I rest,
The warring night-winds smote upon my way,
And the fierce lightnings join'd in wild affray,
And hurl'd their fiëry javelins at my breast.

MARY E. HEWITT.   347

Night—and abroad there moves no living thing!
Sunk on her nest the sea-gull folds her wing,
The bearded goat hath left the cliff on high,—
Of thy fair feet the parch'd sand bears no trace—
Beloved! I wait thee at our meeting place,
I call, but echo gives alone reply.

To what far thicket have thy light steps won?
Shunning the rude gaze of the amorous sun,
In what dark fountain doth thy sweetness hide?
No star shines through the rift in yonder sky—
None may behold thee where thou wanderest by—
Bound from thy lurking forth my woodland bride!

Sadly the flowers their faded petals close,
Where on thy banks they languidly repose,
Waiting in vain to hear thee onward press;
And pale Narcissus by thy margin side
Hath lingered for thy coming, droop'd, and died,
Pining for thee, amid the loneliness.

Hasten, beloved! here, 'neath the o'erhanging rock,—
Hark! from the deep my anxious hope to mock,
They call me backward to my parent main,—
Brighter than Thetis thou! and how more fleet—
I hear the rushing of thy fair, white feet,
Joy!—joy!—my breast receives its own again!

THE PRAYER OF A THIRSTING HEART.

"Give me a blessing. Thou hast given me a south land; give me also springs of water."—Judges, i. 15.

THOU unto whom my cry ascends in anguish,
Where couch'd among the flowers I pining lie;
Behold, how 'mid their odorous scents I languish—
Hear my prayer! Hear! and answer, or I die!

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 18:25:04 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 18:02:26 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 19:07:09 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 19:54:43 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 21:24:40