1840-50.] ALICE GARY. 353 And we are like the morning — heavenly light Blowing about our heads, and th' dumb night Before us and behind us ; ceaseless ills Make up our years ; and as from off the hills The white mists melt, and leave them bare and rough, So melt from us the fancies of our youth, Until we stand against the last black truth Naked, and cold, and desolate enough. WORSHIP. I HAVE no seasons and no times To think of heaven — often at night I go up on a stair of rhymes, And find the way exceeding bright ; And for some accidental good Wrought by me, saints have near me stood. I do not think my heart is hard Beyond the common heart of men, And yet sometimes the best award Smites on it like a stone, and then A sunbeam that may brightly stray In at my window, makes me pray. The flower I've found in some chance nook, Giving its wild heart to the bee, Has taught me meekness like a book Of written preaching; and to see The corn-fields ripe, an orchard red Has made me bow in shame my head. When mostly in God's works I see And feel his love, I make my prayers, And without form or formulce My heart keeps Sabbath unawares, And by the peace that comes, I know My worship is accepted so. A LOVER'S PASTIME. Before the daybreak, I arise, And search, to find if earth or air Hold any where The likeness of thy sweet, sweet eyes! In nature's book. Where semblances of thee I trace, I mark the place, With flowers that have a bleeding look, For pity, gentleness and gi'ace. With lilies white ; And roses that are burning bright I take for blushes : then I catch The sunbeams from the jealous air, And with them match The amber crowning of thy hair. The dews that shine on withering wood, Or thii-sty lands, Quietly busy doing good, Are like thy hands. The brown-eyed sunflower, all the day Looking one way, I take for patience, made divine By melancholy fears, like thine. Ere break of day I'm up and searching earth and air, To find out where. If find I may, Nature hath copied to her praise The beauty of thy gracious ways. The wild sweet-brier Shows through the brook in many a place ; But for the smiling in thy face, She would not have her good attire. Sometimes I walk the stubbly ways That have small praise, But spy out, ne'ertheless. Some patch of moss, all softly pied, Or rude stone, with a speckled side, Telling thy loveliness. 23
