Unknown.

POEMS UNWRITTEN.

There are poems unwritten and songs unsung, Sweeter than any that ever were heard— Poems that wait for an angel tongue,

Songs that but long for a paradise bird.
Poems that ripple through lowliest lives,
Poems unnoted and hidden away

Down in the soul where the beautiful thrives,
Sweetly as flowers in the airs of the May.
Poems that only the angels above us,

Looking down deep in our hearts may behold, Felt, though unseen, by the beings who love us, Written on lives as in letters of gold.

Sing to my soul the sweet song that thou livest!
Read me the poem that never was penned-
The wonderful idyl of life that thou givest
Fresh from thy spirit, oh, beautiful friend!

Josiah Gilbert Holland.
1819-1881.

GRADATIM.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true :
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common clod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under feet;

By what we have mastered of good and gain, By the pride deposed and passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light ; But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things,

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men !

We may borrow the wings to find the way—

We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and

pray,

But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

THE HYMN.

From "Bitter-Sweet."

For summer's bloom and autumn's blight, For bending wheat and blasted maize, For health and sickness, Lord of light, And Lord of darkness, hear our praise!

We trace to Thee our joys and woes,-
To Thee of causes still the cause,-
We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows;
We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws.

We bring no sorrows to Thy throne;
We come to Thee with no complaint.

In providence Thy will is done,
And that is sacred to the saint.

Here, on this blest Thanksgiving night,
We raise to Thee our grateful voice;
For what thou doest, Lord, is right;
And, thus believing, we rejoice.

Anne C. Lynch Botta.

1820-1891.

THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY.

Speak low! tread softly through these halls ;

Here Genius lives enshrined;

Here reign, in silent majesty,
The monarchs of the mind.

A mighty spirit-host they come
From every age and clime;
Above the buried wrecks of years
They breast the tide of time.

And in their presence-chamber here
They hold their regal state,
And round them throng a noble train,
The gifted and the great.

O child of Earth! when round thy path
The storms of life arise,

And when thy brothers pass thee by
With stern, unloving eyes,

Here shall the poets chant for thee
Their sweetest, loftiest lays,
And prophets wait to guide thy steps
In Wisdom's pleasant ways.

Come, with these God-anointed kings
Be thou companion here;

And in the mighty realm of mind

Thou shalt go forth a peer!

LOVE.

Go forth in life, O friend! not seeking love,
A mendicant that with imploring eye
And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by
The alms his strong necessities may move :
For such poor love, to pity near allied,
Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait,
A suppliant whose prayer may be denied

Like a spurned beggar's at a palace-gate :
But thy heart's affluence lavish uncontrolled,—
The largess of thy love give full and free,
As monarchs in their progress scatter gold;
And be thy heart like the exhaustless sea,
That must its wealth of cloud and dew bestow,
Though tributary streams or ebb or flow.

Eliza Scudder.

1821.

THE LOVE OF GOD.

Thou Grace Divine, encircling all,
A soundless, shoreless sea!
Wherein at last our souls must fall,
O Love of God most free!

When over dizzy heights we go,
One soft hand blinds our eyes,
The other leads us, safe and slow,
O Love of God most wise!