15 NOVEMBER 1890, Page 15

POETRY.

REVERENCE.

THERE is an inner voice in woods and bills

Most sweet that it hath no articulate word ; The mystic chant of rivulet and bird With dreamlike longing all my spirit fills ; Great Nature with half-spoken mystery thrills ; And, were the spell with which the heart is stirred Laid rudely bare, the voice were no more heard Ringing from all the mountains, woods, and rills.

And Thou, 0 God ! before whose burning throne With folded wings the Seraph veils his face, I ask not, foolish-hearted, to be shown

The vast dread secrets of Thy dwelling-place, But rather, filled with reverent awe, would bend Before a God I may not comprehend.

W. WALSHAM WAKEFIELD.