Consenting beauties in a whole;
  The living eye, the imperial head,
  The gait of inward music bred,
The woman form, a radiant soul.

And splendours all unspoken bide
  Within the ken of spirit’s eye;
  And many a glory saileth by,
Borne on the Godhead’s living tide.

But I leave all, thou man of woe! 
  Put off my shoes, and come to Thee;
  Thou art most beautiful to me;
More wonderful than all I know.

As child forsakes his favourite toy,
  His sisters’ sport, his wild bird’s nest;
  And climbing to his mother’s breast,
Enjoys yet more his former joy—­

I lose to find.  On forehead wide
  The jewels tenfold light afford: 
  So, gathered round thy glory, Lord,
All beauty else is glorified.

I WOULD I WERE A CHILD.

  I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father! 
And follow Thee with running feet, or rather
  Be led thus through the wild.

  How I would hold thy hand! 
My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,
Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting,
  Over this sea and land.

  If a dark thing came near,
I would but creep within thy mantle’s folding,
Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
  And so forget my fear.

  O soul, O soul, rejoice! 
Thou art God’s child indeed, for all thy sinning;
A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winning
  With gentle eyes and voice.

  The words like echoes flow. 
They are too good; mine I can call them never;
Such water drinking once, I should feel ever
  As I had drunk but now.

  And yet He said it so;
’Twas He who taught our child-lips to say, Father!  Like the poor youth He told of, that did gather
  His goods to him, and go.

  Ah!  Thou dost lead me, God;
But it is dark; no stars; the way is dreary; Almost I sleep, I am so very weary
  Upon this rough hill-road.

  Almost!  Nay, I do sleep. 
There is no darkness save in this my dreaming; Thy Fatherhood above, around, is beaming;
  Thy hand my hand doth keep.

  This torpor one sun-gleam
Would break.  My soul hath wandered into sleeping; Dream-shades oppress; I call to Thee with weeping,
  Wake me from this my dream.

  And as a man doth say,
Lo!  I do dream, yet trembleth as he dreameth;
While dim and dream-like his true history seemeth,
  Lost in the perished day;

  (For heavy, heavy night
Long hours denies the day) so this dull sorrow
Upon my heart, but half believes a morrow
  Will ever bring thy light.

  God, art Thou in the room? 
Come near my bed; oh! draw aside the curtain; A child’s heart would say Father, were it certain
  That it did not presume.

  But if this dreary bond
I may not break, help Thou thy helpless sleeper; Resting in Thee, my sleep will sink the deeper,
  All evil dreams beyond.