MOTHER, range not overwide;
Lest what thou seek be haply hid
In bramble-blossoms at thy side,
Or shut within the daisy-lid.

God's glory lies not out of reach:

The moss we crush beneath our feet,

The pebbles on the wet sea-beach,

Have solemn meanings, strange and sweet.

The peasant, at his cottage door,

May teach thee more than Plato knew. See that thou scorn him not: adore

God in him, and thy nature too.

86

THE CHOICE.

Know well thy friends. The woodbine's breath,

The woolly tendril on the vine,

Are more to thee than Cato's death,

Or Cicero's words to Cataline.

Nor cross the sea for gems. Nor seek:

Be sought.

Fear not to dwell alone.

Possess thyself. Be proudly meek:

See thou be worthy to be known.

We go to Nature not as lords,

But servants; and she treats us thus:
Speaks to us with indifferent words,
And from a distance looks at us.

We ransack History's tattered page;
We prate of epoch and costume;
Call this and that the classic age;
Choose tunic now, now helm and plume:

But while we halt, in weak debate,

"Twixt that and this appropriate theme, The offended wild-flowers stare and wait, The bird hoots at us from the stream.

OWEN MEREDITH.

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

87

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover;
There's no rain left in heaven;

I've said my "Seven Times" over and over,
Seven times one are seven.

I am old,

so old, I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always, they know no better;
They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing,
And shining so round and low;

You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is fail

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven
That God has hidden your face?

I hope, if you have, you will be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee! you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold;
O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow!
Give me your money to hold.