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And peering through the deep wood's maze
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
“Will he not come 2 * she said.

Just then, the parting boughs between,
A little maid’s light form was seen,
All breathless with her speed ;
And following close, a man came on
(A portly man to look upon),
Who led a panting steed.

“Mother | ?” the little maiden cried
Or e”er she reached the woman's side,
And kissed her clay-cold cheek,
“I have not idled in the town,
But long went wandering up and down,
The minister to seek.

“They told me here, — they told me there,
I think they mocked me everywhere ;
And when I found his home,
And begged him on my bended knee
To bring his book, and come with me,
Mother he would not come.

“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 -


“‘I will go with you, child,’ he said,
* God sends me to this dying bed.”
Mother, he 's here, hard by.”
While thus the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye.

The bridle on his neck flung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee.
Pressed close his bonny bay;
A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,
Than those stood there that day.

So while the little maiden spoke
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms; and in his look,
Something that, like a sermon book,
Preached, - “All is vanity.”

But when the dying woman's face
Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,
He stepped to where she lay;
And kneeling down, bent over her,
Saying, — “I am a minister, —
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,
The things that unto life pertain,
And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed, regenerate, –
Of God’s most blest decree,
That not a single soul should die
Who turns repentant with the cry,
“Be merciful to me !”

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil,
Endured but for a little while
In patience, faith, and love, –
Sure, in God’s own good time, to be
Exchanged for an etermity
Of happiness above.

Then, as the spirit ebbed away,
He raised his hands and eyes, to pray
That peaceful it might pass;
And then — the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard, as they knelt every one
Close round on the green grass.

Such was the sight their wondering eyes
Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,
Who reined their coursers back,
Just as they found the long astray,
Who, in the heat of chase that day,
Had wandered from their track.

Back each man reined his pawing steed,
And lighted down, as if agreed,
In silence at his side ;
And there, uncovered all, they stood; —
It was a wholesome sight, and good,
That day for mortal pride.


For of the noblest of the land
Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band ;
And central in the ring,
By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed king.”


WE are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,

Streaking the darkness radiantly — yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever;

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,

To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest, — a dream has power to poison sleep ;
We rise, one wandering thought pollutes the day

We feel, conceive, or reason, laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;

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 ;
Naught may endure but Mutability.

* George the Third of England.

TO THE MOON.—Shelley.

ART thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, – And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy *


WHEN all is done and said,
In th’ end thus shall you find : .
He most of all doth bathe in bliss,
That hath a quiet mind;
And clear from worldly cares,
To deem can be content
The sweetest time in all his life
In thinking to be spent.

The body subject is
To fickle Fortune's power,
And to a million of mishaps
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,
Through thinking, few or none.

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