THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. And peering through the deep wood's maze "Will he not come?" she said. Just then, the parting boughs between, "Mother!" the little maiden cried But long went wandering up and down, "They told me here, they told me there, “I told him how you dying lay, And could not go in peace away Without the minister; I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, But O! my heart was fit to break, – Mother! he would not stir. "So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back fast as fast could be, To come again to you ; And here close by this squire I met, Who asked (so mild!) what made me fret; And when I told him true, S 259 260 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. "I will go with you, child,' he said, The bridle on his neck flung free, A statelier man, a statelier steed, So while the little maiden spoke But when the dying woman's face Saying, My sister! let us pray." And well, withouten book or stole (God's words were printed on his soul), Into the dying ear He breathed, as 't were an angel's strain, And death's dark shadows clear. THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. He spoke of sinners' lost estate, He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, In patience, faith, and love,— Of happiness above. Then, as the spirit ebbed away, Such was the sight their wondering eyes Back each man reined his pawing steed, In silence at his side And there, uncovered all, they stood; 261 For of the noblest of the land Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band; By that dead pauper on the ground, MUTABILITY. - Shelley. We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon ; Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings We rest, It is the same! for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free; Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; George the Third of England. OF A CONTENTED MIND. 263 TO THE MOON.— Shelley. ART thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Among the stars that have a different birth, — OF A CONTENTED MIND. WHEN all is done and said, In th’end thus shall you find : To deem can be content The body subject is To fickle Fortune's power, Is casual every hour; And death in time doth change It to a clod of clay; Whereas the mind, which is divine, Runs never to decay. Companion none is like Unto the mind alone; For many have been harmed by speech, |