424

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,
Spread his wings, and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well

And morning, evening, noon, and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy to youth he grew
The man put off the stripling's hue;

The man matured, and fell away
Into the season of decay;

And ever o'er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God's will; to him, all ›ne
If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear
There is no doubt in it, no fear;

;

"So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways;

I miss my little human praise.'

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'T was Easter Day; he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room, close by
The great outer gallery

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And, rising from the sickness drear,
He
grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

Vainly I left my angel's sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

425

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way while I remain.

“With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up Creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ
Become the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died;
They sought God side by side.

426

THE CHIMNEY SWEEP.

THE CHIMNEY SWEEP.

SWEEP ho! Sweep ho!

He trudges on through sleet and snow.
Tired and hungry both is he,
And he whistles vacantly.
Sooty black his rags and skin,
But the child is fair within.
Ice and cold are better far
Than his master's curses are.
Mother of this little one,
Could'st thou see thy little son!
Sweep ho! Sweep ho!

He trudges on through sleet and snow,
At the great man's door he knocks,
Which the servant maid unlocks.
Now let in with laugh and jeer,
In his eye there stands a tear.
He is young, but soon will know
How to bear both word and blow.
Sweep ho! Sweep ho!
In the chimney sleet and snow.
Gladly should his task be done,
Were 't the last beneath the sun.

Faithfully it now shall be,

But, soon spent, down droppeth he.

Gazes round, as in a dream,

Very strange, but true, things seem.

Led by a fantastic power

Which sets by the present hour,

Creeps he to a little bed,

Pillows there his aching head,

And, roor thing! he does not know

There he lay long years ago!

FROM EDWIN THE FAIR.

427

FROM EDWIN THE FAIR.- Taylor.

THE wind, when first he rose and went abroad
Through the waste region, felt himself at fault,
Wanting a voice; and suddenly to earth
Descended with a wafture and a swoop,
Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind,
He wooed the several trees to give him one.
First, he besought the ash; the voice she lent,
Fitfully, with a free and lashing change,
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties:
The aspen, next; a fluttered frivolous twitter
Was her sole tribute: from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dressed her out,
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note
Was lisping, dry, and reedy: lastly, the pine
Did he solicit; and from her he drew

A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave
Where he was born.

A HOME SONNET.— Hood.

THE world is with me, and its many cares
Its woes its wants- the anxious hopes and fears
That wait on all terrestrial affairs —

The shades of former and of future years.

Foreboding fancies and prophetic tears,

Quelling a spirit that was once elate.

Heavens! what a wilderness the earth appears,

Where youth, and mirth, and health, are out of date

428 TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD.

But no

a laugh of innocence and joy
Resounds, like music of that fairy race,
And, gladly turning from the world's annoy
I gaze upon a little radiant face,
And bless, internally, the merry boy

Who makes a son-shine in a shady place.

FROM HOURS WITH THE MUSES. --J. C. Prince.

SABBATH! thou art my Ararat of life,
Siniling above the deluge of my cares,
My only refuge from the storms of strife,
When constant Hope her noblest aspect wears,
When my torn mind its broken strength repairs,
And volant Fancy breathes a sweeter strain.
Calm season! when my thirsting spirit shares
A draught of joy unmixed with aught of pain,
Spending the quiet hours 'mid Nature's green domain

TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD.

WHEN on my ear your loss was knęlled,
And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory welled

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst;

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief,

That it might be as cooling dew

To steal some fever from your grief

After our child's untroubled breath

Up to the Father took its way,