I never looked upon thy face; I never saw thy dwelling-place; My home is by Lake Erie's shore, Beyond Niagara's distant roar; And thine where ships at anchor ride, By fair St. Lawrence's rolling tide, With half a continent between Its seas of blue, and isles of green, And many a mountain's nodding crest, And many a valley's jewelled breast. Thou in the east, I in the west; Yet in this book thou hast to me An individuality; Something more tangible and fair Than any dream or shape of air, With more than an ideal grace, And sweeter than a pictured face: For in this book my thought recalls The garden quaint, the convent walls. And thou beneath their shadow set, A blue-eyed fragrant violet. So for the maiden of the tale, Whose brave true heart might break, not fail, Thyself, my Violet I make, And love thee for thy mother's sake.

A PRELUDE, AND A BIRD'S SONG.

The poet's song, and the bird's, And the waters' that chant as they run And the waves' that kiss the beach, And the wind's--they are but one. He who may read their words, And the secret hid in each, May know the solemn monochords That breathe in vast still places; And the voices of myriad races, Shy, and far-off from man, That hide in shadow and sun, And are seen but of him who can To him the awful face is shown Swathed in a cloud wind-blown Of Him, who from His secret throne, In some void, shadowy, and unknown land Comes forth to lay His mighty hand On the sounding organ keys, That play deep thunder-marches, Like the rush and the roar of seas, And fill the cavernous arches Of antique wildernesses hoary, With a long-resounding roll, As they fill man's listening soul With a shuddering sense of might and glory.

These he shall hear, and more than these In bird's song, and in poet's scroll; Something underneath the whole, A music yet unbreathed.--unsung-- Unwritten--incommunicable; Whispered from no mortal tongue: What seer nor prophet may rehearse In oracle, or Delphic fable, Since the old dead gods were young, And made with man their dwelling-place; But he shall hear, of all his race, The dread wherefore of life and death; He shall behold the ultimates Of fears and doubts, and scores and hates, And the sure final crown of faith. And in his ear the rhythmic verse Shall sound the steps of that beyond, Serene, that hastens not, nor waits, But holds within its depths profound The mystery of all lives--all fates-- The secret of the universe.

AN APRIL DAWN.

All night a slow soft rain, A shadowy stranger from a cloudy land, Sighing and sobbing, with unsteady hand Beat at the lattice, ceased, and beat again, And fled like some wild startled thing pursued By demons of the night and solitude, Returning ever--wistful--timid--fain-- The intermittent rain.

And still the sad hours crept Within uncounted, the while hopes and fears Swayed our full hearts, and overflowed in tears That fell in silence, as she waked or slept, Still drawing nearer to that unknown shore Whence foot of mortal cometh nevermore, And still the rain was as a pulse that kept Time as the slow hours crept.