helen bunt Jackson.

RETURN TO THE HILLS.

Like a music of triumph and joy

Sounds the roll of the wheels,

And the breath of the engine laughs out
In loud chuckles and peals,
Like the laugh of a man that is glad
Coming homeward at night;

I lean out of the window and nod

To the left and the right,

To my friends in the fields and the woods;

Not a face do I miss;

The sweet asters and browned golden-rod,

And that stray clematis,

Of all vagabonds dearest and best,
In most seedy estate;

I am sure they all recognize me;

If I only could wait,

I should hear all the welcome which now

In their faces I read,

"O true lover of us and our kin, We all bid thee God speed !"

O my mountains, no wisdom can teach
Me to think that ye care

Nothing more for my steps than the rest;
Or that they can have share

Such as mine in your royal crown-lands,
Unencumbered of fee;

In your temples with altars unhewn,
Where redemption is free;

In your houses of treasure, which gold
Cannot buy if it seeks;

And your oracles, mystic with words,
Which men lose if they speak!

Ah!

with boldness of lovers who wed
I make haste to your feet,

And as constant as lovers who die,
My surrender repeat;

And I take as the right of my love,
And I keep as its sign,

An ineffable joy in each sense

And new strength as from wine,
A seal for all purpose and hope,
And a pledge of full light,

Like a pillar of cloud for my day,
And of fire for my night.

BEST.

Mother, I see you, with your nursery light,
Leading your babies, all in white,

To their sweet rest;

Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night,

And that is best.

I can not help tears, when I see them twine

Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine

On your warm breast;

But the Savior's is purer than yours or mine,

He can love best!

You tremble each hour because your arms
Are weak; your heart is wrung with alarms
And sore opprest;

My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms,
And that is best.

You know, over yours may hang even now
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow
Naught can arrest;

Mine in God's gardens run to and fro,
And that is best.

You know that of yours, your feeblest one
And dearest may live long years alone,

Unloved, unblest;

Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne, And that is best.

You must dread for yours the crime that sears.
Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears,

And unconfessed;

Mine entered spotless on eternal years,
O, how much the best!

But grief is selfish; I cannot see
Always why I should so stricken be,
More than the rest:

But I know that, as well as for them, for me
God did the best!

"NOT AS I WILL."

Blindfolded and alone I stand

With unknown thresholds on each hand;
The darkness deepens as I grope,

Afraid to fear, afraid to hope;

Yet this one thing I learn to know
Each day more surely as I go,

That doors are opened, ways are made,
Burdens are lifted or are laid,

By some great law unseen and still,
Unfathomed purpose to fulfill,

"Not as I will."

Blindfolded and alone I wait;
Loss seems too bitter, gain too late;
Too heavy burdens in the load
And too few helpers on the road;
And joy is weak and grief is strong,
And years and days so long, so long.
Yet this one thing I learn to know
Each day more surely as I go,
That I am glad the good and ill
By changeless law are ordered still.
"Not as I will."

"Not as I will:" the sound grows sweet

Each time my lips the words repeat.

"Not as I will:" the darkness feels

More safe than light when this thought steals

Like whispered voice to calm and bless

All unrest and all loneliness.

"Not as I will," because the One

Who loved us first and best has gone
Before us on the road, and still
For us must all his love fulfil,
"Not as I will."

THOUGHT.

O messenger, art thou the king, or I?
Thou dalliest outside the palace gate

Till on thine idle armor lie the the late

And heavy dews: the morn's bright, scornful eye

Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery,

Thou smilest at the window where I wait,
Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state
My days go on, while false hours prophesy
Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air;
When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet,
And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.

Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy,

I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.