Reversion of the skies,

Ours by his death obtained,
At what a costly price

The inheritance was gained.

He left his heavenly throne,
Here as a man to live,
To fast, and weep, and groan,
That he might sin forgive.

Stamped with a worth divine,
The work which he did here,

Our pardon he did sign,

Our trespasses did clear.

And when His sun did set,

And blood His cross defiled,

Justice and mercy met,
For ever reconciled.

September 9, 1859.

OPINION.

In one united tide,

Where several streams are flowing, Until then side by side,

In parallel courses going.

Together when they come,
In one vast river blended,
Not by the separate sum,
Unto the rest extended.

Not so we multiply,

The power as on it floweth,
Another rule must try,

Its added power which showeth.

It is the very same,

When thought to thought's uniting, (Opinion we name),

Or printed or in writing.

Like one vast stream it goes,
All barriers overbearing,
Its power the strongest knows,
Its influence the most daring.

Tyrants its law obey,

The very boldest tremble,
And own its sovereign sway,

Howe'er they may dissemble.

September 10, 1859.

TO A. C. ON HER BIRTHDAY,

SEPTEMBER 12, 1859.

Awake, awake,

And listen to my lay,

And from me take

A welcome, love, to-day.

Even the birds,

Their welcome also pay,

Joining my words,

On this auspicious day.

They seem to say,

"Our welcome, lady take,

On this bright day,

Awake, awake, awake."

"Awake, the skies,

Look down with sunny light,

Arise, arise,

Oh lady fair and bright!

"The whispering trees,
In notes harmonious play,
The gentle breeze,

Is joining in the lay."

"Then lady wake,

And at thy lattice show,
Our welcome take,

Our boon, a smile bestow."

September, 1859.

TO TENNYSON.

Musician, painter, both in one,
Thine art combines, of Tennyson,
Words drop like colours from thy pen,
When thou describest scenes or men.

When thou describest woman too,
Thou paintest with the brightest hue,
Fresh from the rainbow seems thy pen,
Thou art without a rival then.

Then thy descriptions sweetly grand,
Upon the highest scale they're planned,

The highest any one could reach,
And perfect in itself is each.

The man, the woman, both we see,
Each perfect in their symmetry,
Magnificent the man as Jove,
And she the very type of love.

He with his beard of grisly black,
She with her ringlets down her back,
Teasing the giant to declare

His love, and playing with his hair.*

A fairy wand, oh bard, thou hast,
Evoking figures of the past,

In all their living ways they stand,
The creatures of thy magic wand.

Sometimes thy voice is like a dirge,
Or like the sea's full sounding surge,
Or like the cry of plundered bird,
When for its fledgelings it is stirred.

Or like the river in its march,

When flashing through the spanning arch,

* See Idyls.

F