170 THE CHRONICLES OF A GARDEN. 



And love that keeps the music, fills 



With pastoral memories. 



All echoings from out the hills, 



All droppings from the skies, 



All flovvings from the wave and wind, 



Eemembei''d in their chant I find. 



So teach ye me the wisest part, 

 My little doves ! to move 

 Along the city ways with heart 

 Assured by holy love, 

 And vocal with such songs as owu 

 A fountain to the world unknown. 



'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream, 



More hard in Babel's street ! 



But if the soulless creatures deem 



Their music not unmeet 



For sunless walls — let m begin, 



Who wear immortal wings within. 



To me fair memories belong 



Of scenes that used to bless. 



For no regret, but present song, 



And lasting thankfulness. 



And very soon to break away, 



Like types, in purer things than they. 



I will have hopes that cannot fade, 



For flowers the valley yields ! 



I will have humble thoughts instead 



Of silent dewy fields ! 



My spirit and my God shall be 



My seaward hill, iny boundless sea. 



Elizabeth B. Browning. 



