If God be God, then heaven is real :
We need not lose ourselves and Him
In some vast sea of the ideal,

Dreamy and dim.

He cheats not any soul. He gave

Each being unity like His;

Love, that links beings, he must save;
Of Him it is.

Dear friend, we will not drift too far
Mid billows, fogs, and blinding foam,
To see Christ's beacon-light,- the star
That guides us home.

Moving toward heaven, we'll meet half-way Some pilot from that unseen strand; Then, anchoring safe in perfect day,

Tread the firm land.

Then onward and for ever on

Toward summits piled on summits bright.

The lost are found, and we have won

The Land of Light!

God is that country's glory: He
Alike the confidence is found
Of those who try the uncertain sea
Or solid ground.

Yet we, for love of those who bend

From yon clear heights, passed on before

To wait our coming,-we, dear friend,

Will keep near shore.

ACROSS THE RIVER.
WHEN for me the silent oar
Parts the Silent River,
And I stand upon the shore
Of the strange For-ever,

Shall I miss the loved and known ?
Shall I vainly seek mine own?

Mid the crowd that come to meet

Spirits sin-forgiven,

Listening to their echoing feet

Down the streets of heaven,—

Shall I know a footstep near
That I listen, wait for here?

Then will one approach the brink
With a hand extended,

One whose thoughts I loved to think
Ere the veil was rended,
Saying "Welcome! we have died,
And again are side by side."

Saying "I will go with thee,
That thou be not lonely,
hills of mystery:

To yon

I have waited only

Until now, to climb with thee
Yonder hills of mystery."

Can the bonds, that make us here
Know ourselves immortal,
Drop away, like foliage sere,
At life's inner portal?
What is holiest below
Must for ever live and grow.

I shall love the angels well,
After I have found them
In the mansions where they dwell,
With the glory round them;

But at first, without surprise,
Let me look in human eyes.

Step by step our feet must go
Up the holy mountain;
Drop by drop within us flow
Life's unfailing fountain.
Angels sing with crowns that burn;
We shall have a song to learn.

He who on our earthly path
Bids us help each other-
Who his Well-beloved hath
Made our Elder Brother-
Will but clasp the chain of love
Closer, when we meet above.

Therefore dread I not to go
O'er the Silent River.
Death, thy hastening oar I know;
Bear me, thou Life-giver,

Through the waters, to the shore
Where mine own have gone before!

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

[Born about 1835. Son of James Aldrich, himself a writer of some poetic repute].

DECEMBER 1863.

ONLY the sea intoning,

Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning
Over the lonely house.

Darkest of all Decembers

Ever my life has known,

Sitting here by the embers,

Stunned and helpless, alone,

Dreaming of two graves lying
Out in the damp and chill;
One where the buzzard, flying,
Pauses at Malvern Hill:

The other, alas! the pillows
Of that uneasy bed

Rise and fall with the billows
Over our sailor's head.

Theirs the heroic story,

Died, by frigate and town!
Theirs the calm and the glory,
Theirs the cross and the crown.

Mine to linger and languish.
Here by the wintry sea.

Ah faint heart! in thy anguish,
What is there left to thee?

Only the sea intoning,

Only the wainscot-mouse,

Only the wild wind moaning
Over the lonely house.

!

THE MOORLAND.

THE moorland lies a dreary waste;
The night is dark with drizzling rain;
In yonder yawning cave of cloud
The snaky lightning writhes with pain.

O sobbing rain outside my door,

O wailing phantoms, make your moan; Go through the night in blind despair,Your shadowy lips have touched my own.

No more the robin breaks its heart

Of music in the pathless woods:

The ravens croak for such as I,

The plovers screech above their broods.

All mournful things are friends of mine, (That weary sound of falling leaves!)— Ah there is not a kindred soul

For me on earth, but moans and grieves !

I cannot sleep this lonesome night:
The ghostly rain goes by in haste,
And, further than the eye can reach,
The moorland lies a dreary waste.

PISCATAQUA RIVER.

1860.

THOU singest by the gleaming isles,
By woods and fields of corn,
Thou singest, and the heaven smiles
Upon my birthday morn.

But I within a city, I,

So full of vague unrest,

Would almost give my life to lie
An hour upon thy breast;

To let the wherry listless go,
And, rapt in dreamy joy,
Dip, and surge idly to and fro,
Like the red harbour-buoy ;

To sit in happy indolence,
To rest upon the oars,

And catch the heavy earthy scents
That blow from summer shores;

To see the rounded sun go down,
And with its parting fires
Light up the windows of the town,
And burn the tapering spires:-

And then to hear the muffled tolls
From steeples slim and white,