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And these breeze- haunted woods, that ocean clear,

Have now become less beautiful, less dear, But I am homesick!

THE LAND OF LIGHT.

Let me then weary be!

I shrink not, murmur not; In all this homelessness I see

The Church's pilgrim- lot:

Her lot until her absent Lord shall come, And the long homeless here, shall find a

home.

Then no more weariness!

No gathering cloud of gloom; Then no dull weight of loneliness,

No greedy cravings for the tomb: For death shall then be swallowed up of life,

And the glad victory shall end the strife!

THE LAND OF LIGHT.

THAT clime is not like this dull clime of ours; All, all is brightness there;

A sweeter influence breathes around its flowers, And a far milder air.

No calm below is like that calm above, No region here is like that realm of love; Earth's softest spring ne'er shed so soft a light, Earth's brightest summer never shone so bright.

B