MY CREED.

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season,
And these fair sights of its sunny days,
Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.

There is no glory in star or blossom,

Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes,

Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,

The opening flowers and gleaming brooks, And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

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W. C. BRYANT.

MY CREED.

I HOLD that Christian grace abounds
Where charity is seen; that when
We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds

Of love to men.

I hold all else named piety

A selfish scheme, a vain pretense;
Where center is not, can there be

Circumference?

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MY CREED.

This I moreover hold, and dare

Affirm where'er my rhyme may go:
Whatever things be sweet or fair,
Love makes them so;

Whether it be the lullabies

That charm to rest the nestling bird,
Or that sweet confidence of sighs,
And blushes without word;

Whether the dazzling and the flush

Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin-door or bush
Of ragged flowers.

'Tis not the wide phylactery,

Nor stubborn fast, or stated prayers,

That make us saints; we judge the tree
By what it bears.

And when a man can live apart

From work, on theologic trust,

I know the blood about his heart

Is dry as dust.

ALICE CARY.

THE WIFE.

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THE WIFE.

NoT as all other women are

Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star;

And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own,

Which lesser souls may never know;

God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,

Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot;

Life hath no dim and lowly spot,

That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace,

Is low esteemed in her eyes.

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THE WIFE.

She hath no scorn of common things;

And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings

To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is; God made her so:
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow;
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto

Her life doth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman-one in whom

The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as still

As a broad river's peaceful might,

THE BIRTH-DAY.

Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Goes wandering at its own sweet will,

And yet doth ever flow aright.

And on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;

It flows around them and between,

And makes them fresh and fair and green,—

Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE BIRTH-DAY.

TREAD lightly on the sod

Of thy departed years;
Be tender of their broken links,
And mindful of their fears.

The loves of youth's bright dawn,
The hopes of manhood's day;
The flow'ry paths that, all untrod,
In life's fresh morning lay,

Are woven in the web

And fibre of thy soul;

The finest thread that fancy draws

They color and control.

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