"FROM EDEN'S BOWERS THE FULL-FED RIVERS FLOW, TO GUIDE THE OUTCASTS TO THE LAND OF WOE;-(MACDONALD)

"A DEEPER CHILDHOOD FIRST AWAY MUST WIPE-(G. MACDONALD)

[THIS thoughtful poet and eloquent writer is the author of numerous
works, scarcely less remarkable for their subtle fancy and poetic spirit, their
tenderness, lofty tone, and beautiful expression, than for their character-
istic originality. He has already enriched our literature with, in poetry,
"The Disciple," and "Within and Without;" in fiction, with "Phan-
tastes,"
," "The Portent," "David Elginbrod," "Adela Cathcart,"
"Alec
Forbes of Howglen,"
," "Guild Court," "Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood;"
and "Wilfrid Cumbermede;" and in theology, with his "Unspoken Ser-
mons. These are the treasured companions of a large and ever-increas-
ing circle of enthusiastic admirers.

"No lover of poetry," says a writer in the Athenæum, “will be insen-
sible to the high and generous feeling, the true love of nature, and the fancy,
fresh and delicate, which Mr. MacDonald displays. There is much to re-
mind us of Wordsworth. There is the same happy blending of the influences
of nature with the truths of human life-the same keen perception both of
the correspondences and the differences between the two. Mr. MacDonald's
strains, if less majestic, are more tender. We catch from the flute, as it
were in a sweet echo, the melody first heard from the organ."
Mr. MacDonald was born in 1824.]

OUR EARTH ONE LITTLE TOILING STREAMLET YIELDS, TO GUIDE THE WANDERERS TO THE HAPPY FIELDS."-MACDONALD.

AUTUMN SONG.

UTUMN clouds are flying, flying,
O'er the waste of blue;
Summer flowers are dying, dying,

Late so lovely new.

Labouring wains are slowly rolling
Home with winter grain;
Holy bells are slowly tolling
Over buried men.

Goldener light sets noon a-sleeping

Like an afternoon;

Colder airs come stealing, creeping,

After sun and moon;

THE CONSCIOUSNESS WHICH WAS OUR MANHOOD'S PAIN."-MACDONALD.

"BETTER TO SIT AT THE WATER'S BIRTH THAN A SEA OF WAVES TO WIN, GEORGE MACDONALD)

278

BE THY HEART A WELL OF LOVE, MY CHILD;

GEORGE MACDONALD.

TO LIVE IN THE LOVE THAT FLOWETH FORTH, THAN THE LOVE THAT COMETH IN."-MACDONALD,

["Labouring wains are slowly rolling home
with winter grain."]

And the leaves, all tired of blowing
Cloud-like o'er the sun,
Change to sunset-colours, knowing
That their day is done.

Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking
Into winter's night;

And our hearts are thinking, thinking
Of the cold and blight:

FLOWING, AND FREE, AND SURE."-MACDONALD.

"SO JOY AFTER JOY MAY GO SWEEPING OVER THE ANCIENT PAIN-(GEORGE MACDONALD)

SIR LARK AND KING SUN: A PARABLE.

OOD morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone,
Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.
"Shine on me, my lord; I only am come,
Of all your servants, to welcome you home.
I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear,
To catch the first shine of your golden hair."

BREAKS COMMON LIFE asunder."-George MACDONALD.

279

DROWNED IN WAVES AND WAVES OF WEEPING, IT WILL RISE AGAIN."-GEORGE MACDONALD.

"THE TONGUES OF WHISPERING TREES TO HEAR, THE SERMON OF THE SILENT STONE;

["To catch the first shine of your golden hair."]

"Must I thank you then," said the king, "Sir Lark,

For flying so high and hating the dark?

You ask a full cup for half a thirst:

Half was love of me, and half love to be first.

SHOWS PRINTS OF SAVING FEET, BOTH OLD AND NEW."-G. MACDONALD,

GOD, IN THE DREARIEST PATHS THAT MEN HAVE TROD, MACDONALD)

TO READ IN BROOKS THE LESSON DEAR OF NATURE WORKING ALL ALONE."-MACDONALD.

FINDS MORE IN ANY HUMAN FACE, BECLOUDED ALL WITH WRONG AND DOUBT, GEORGE MACDONALD)

HE WHOSE HEART IS FULL OF GRACE

SIR LARK AND KING SUN: A PARABLE.

281

There's many a bird makes no such haste,

But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."

And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud,
And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;

But he flew up higher, and thought, "Anon
The wrath of the king will be over and gone;
And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold,
Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."

So he flew with the strength of a lark he flew ;
But, as he rose, the cloud rose too;
And not one gleam of the golden hair
Came through the depths of the misty air;
Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore,
The strong sun-seeker could do no more.

His wings had had no chrism of gold;
And his feathers felt withered and worn and old;
He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone.
And there on his nest, where he left her, alone
Sat his little wife on her little eggs,
Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!
Full in her face was shining the king.

66

'Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he ;
'Up is not always the best way to me.

While you have been singing so high and away,
I've been shining to your little wife all day."

He had set his crown all about the nest,

And out of the midst shone her little brown breast:
And so glorious was she in russet gold,

That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold.

TO BROTHERS, SISTERS, ROUND ABOUT,

THAN SHINES IN NATURE'S HOLIEST PLACE, WHERE MOUNTAINS DWELL AND STREAMS RUN OUT."-MACDONALD.