That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed. -Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let us before we part It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed, But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed. Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms, And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms, And bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay, With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of 66 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we unsurveyed He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral rites, The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre Yet not the less, in children's hymns and lonely of the shade. prayer, delights. I lighted-opened with soft touch the chapel's iron "God for his service needeth not proud work of door, human skill; Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while from They please him best who labour most to do in roof to floor peace his will: From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be with wonder cast, given Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear the last. us up to heaven." For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest showed, was his look, By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream-recorded in here, there glowed, this book, Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of Lest all that passed should melt away in silence gratitude; from my mind, Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech As visions still more bright have done, and left no I thus renewed: "Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say, trace behind. But oh! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, Far and wide on hill and valley But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden Whirled adown the rocky channel, Peace and rest, as seems, before them Oh! it was a frightful current Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved; Clap your hands with joy my Hearers, Shout in triumph, both are saved; Saved by courage that with danger PART II. Now, to a maturer Audience, So, unwatched by love maternal, Mother's care no more her guide, Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan Even while at her father's side. Spare your blame, remembrance makes him Still upon his cheek are living Dear caresses given in pity, Sympathy that soothed his grief, As the dying mother witnessed To her thankful mind's relief. Time passed on; the Child was happy, Like a Spirit of air she moved, Wayward, yet by all who knew her For her tender heart beloved. Scarcely less than sacred passions, Bred in house, in grove, and field, Link her with the inferior creatures, Urge her powers their rights to shield. Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, Merciful protectress, kindling Many a captive hath she rescued, Listen yet awhile;-with patience Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains To their echoes gave the sound, Notice punctual as the minute, Warning solemn and profound. She, fulfilling her sire's office, Rang alone the far-heard knell, Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow, Paid to One who loved her well. When his spirit was departed On that service she went forth; Nor will fail the like to render When his corse is laid in earth. What then wants the Child to temper, In her breast, unruly fire, To control the froward impulse Easily a pious training And a stedfast outward power Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer, Watchful as a wheeling eagle, Leave that thought; and here be uttered POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 1. THE BROTHERS. "THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, To Jane, his wife, Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. "Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds A fellow-mariner;-and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed And now, at last, * This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of the Hurricane. He to the solitary church-yard turned; He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew That he began to doubt; and even to hope him: And oh what joy this recollection now By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, "Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone : His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead.-Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. We are not all that perish.—I remember, Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, As if they had been made that they might be For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side- Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, life: Your years make up one peaceful family ; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you: And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread |