’Tis now the hour to probe the ground,
     To watch the Heavens, to speak the word,
     The fathoms of the deep to sound,
     And send abroad the missioned bird,

     On strengthened wing for evermore,
     Let Science, swiftly as she can,
     Fly seaward on from shore to shore,
     And bind the links of man to man;

     And like that fair propitious Dove
     Bless future fleets about to launch;
     Make every freight a freight of love,
     And every ship an Olive Branch.

     Song

     Love within the lover’s breast
     Burns like Hesper in the west,
     O’er the ashes of the sun,
     Till the day and night are done;
     Then when dawn drives up her car —
     Lo! it is the morning star.

     Love! thy love pours down on mine
     As the sunlight on the vine,
     As the snow-rill on the vale,
     As the salt breeze in the sail;
     As the song unto the bird,
     On my lips thy name is heard.

     As a dewdrop on the rose
     In thy heart my passion glows,
     As a skylark to the sky
     Up into thy breast I fly;
     As a sea-shell of the sea
     Ever shall I sing of thee.

     The wild rose and the snowdrop

     The Snowdrop is the prophet of the flowers;
     It lives and dies upon its bed of snows;
     And like a thought of spring it comes and goes,
     Hanging its head beside our leafless bowers. 
     The sun’s betrothing kiss it never knows,
     Nor all the glowing joy of golden showers;
     But ever in a placid, pure repose,
     More like a spirit with its look serene,
     Droops its pale cheek veined thro’ with infant green.

     Queen of her sisters is the sweet Wild Rose,
     Sprung from the earnest sun and ripe young June;
     The year’s own darling and the Summer’s Queen! 
     Lustrous as the new-throned crescent moon. 
     Much of that early prophet look she shows,
     Mixed with her fair espoused blush which glows,
     As if the ethereal fairy blood were seen;
     Like a soft evening over sunset snows,
     Half twilight violet shade, half crimson sheen.

     Twin-born are both in beauteousness, most fair
     In all that glads the eye and charms the air;
     In all that wakes emotions in the mind
     And sows sweet sympathies for human kind. 
     Twin-born, albeit their seasons are apart,
     They bloom together in the thoughtful heart;
     Fair symbols of the marvels of our state,
     Mute speakers of the oracles of fate!

     For each, fulfilling nature’s law, fulfils
     Itself and its own aspirations pure;
     Living and dying; letting faith ensure
     New life when deathless Spring shall touch the hills. 
     Each perfect in its place; and each content