78 HENRY KIEKE WHITE S POEMS. 



IV. 



Is it that here I must not stop, 

 But o'er yon blue hill's woody top 



Must bend my lonely way ? 

 Now, surely no, for give but me 

 My own fire-side, and I shall be 



At home where'er I stray. 



Then is it that yon steeple there, 

 With music sweet shall fill the air, 



When thou no more canst hear ? 

 Oh no ! oh no ! for then, forgiven, 

 I shall be with my God in heaven, 



Released from every fear. 



VI. 



Then whence it is I cannot tell, 

 But there is some mysterious spell 



That holds me when I'm glad ; 

 And so the tear-drop fills my eye, 

 When yet in truth I know not why, 



Or wherefore I am sad. 



SOLITUDE. 



It is not that my lot is low, 

 That bids this silent tear to flow 

 It is not grief that bids me moan; 

 It is that I am all alone. 



In woods and glens I love to roam, 

 When the tired hedger hies him- home ; 

 Or by the woodland pool to rest, 

 When pale the star looks on its breast. 



