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That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, the true

not transformed, And faithful service of his heart in the worst that But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human might ensue

heart had warmed. Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste

Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence

him in my arms, was placed.

And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint

alarms, -Here, Lady! might I cease ; but nay, let us And bore him high through yielding air my debt before we part

of love to pay, With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of of earnest heart,

holiday. That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's appointed way,

I whispered, “ Yet a little while, dear Child ! thou The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all

art my own, sufficing stay.

To show thee some delightful thing, in country or

in town. What shall it be ? a mirthful throng ? or that holy

place and calm
St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of

Notre Dame ?
THE POET'S DREAM,

XIX.

SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY.

“St. Ouen's golden Shrine ? Or choose what else Just as those final words were penned, the sun

would please thee most broke out in power,

Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France,

can boast!" And gladdened all things ; but, as chanced, within that very hour,

“ My Mother,” said the Boy,“ was born near to a

blessed Tree, Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the sky,

The Chapel Oak of Allonville ; good Angel, show

it me !" And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved a pensive sigh.

On wings, from broad and stedfast poise let loose

by this reply, Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared,

For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away then did

we fly; For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned hut appeared ;

O’er town and tower we flew, and fields in May's

fresh verdure drest; And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troub

The wings they did not flag; the Child, though ling earth and air, I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in

grave, was not deprest. prayer.

But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake with

light that broke articulate call,

Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord

down on that huge oak, of All;

For length of days so much revered, so famous

where it stands His lips were moving; and his eyes, upraised to sue for grace,

For twofold hallowing—Nature's care, and work

of human hands? With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place.

Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided round How beautiful is holiness !-what wonder if the sight, and round Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, night?

and stair that wound

F

66

POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD.

Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral unsurveyed

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:

trace behind.

“ Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard But oh! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, thy Mother say,

loved Child, can see And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, la Paix ;

In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, this simple theme, when the voice was stopt

Nor leave untold our happy flight in that By sudden pangs ; what bitter tears have on this adventurous dream. pavement dropt !

Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy! to thee from “ Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favoured whom it flowed, lot is thine,

Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 'twas Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many bounteously bestowed, to this shrine;

If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no

read release,

Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy,

their fancies feed.

in peace.

XX.

THE WEST MORELAND GIRL.

“ Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness

and praise, Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy

most busy days; And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small

hut, will be Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel

of this Tree;

TO MY GRANDCHILDREN.

PART I.
SEEK who will delight in fable
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb
Leapt from this steep bank to follow
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam.

“ Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous

Church in Rome
Where thousands meet to worship God under a

mighty Dome;

* See note.

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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.

Leave that thought ; and here be uttered
Prayer that Grace divine may raise
Her humane courageous spirit
Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways.

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Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
THE BROTHERS.

His expectations to the fickle winds

And perilous waters; with the mariners “ These Tourists, heaven preserve us ! needs must

A fellow-mariner;-and so had fared live

Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared A profitable life: some glance along,

Among the mountains, and he in his heart Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,

Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. And they were butterflies to wheel about

Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,

Of caves and trees:-and, when the regular wind
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,

Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, And blew with the same breath through days and
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,

weeks, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.

Lengthening invisibly its weary line
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,

Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Why can he tarry yonder !—In our church-yard Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Is neither epitaph nor monument,

Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread

And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam
And a few natural graves."

Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
To Jane, his wife,

In union with the employment of his heart,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.

He, thus by feverish passion overcome, It was a July evening; and he sate

Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves

Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Of his old cottage,-as it chanced, that day,

Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees,
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,

And shepherds clad in the same country grey
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering Which he himself had worn*.
wire,

And now, at last, He fed the spindle of his youngest child,

From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Who, in the open air, with due accord

Acquired by traffic ʼmid the Indian Isles,
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, To his paternal home he is returned,
Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field With a determined purpose to resume
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,

The life he had lived there; both for the sake
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, Of many darling pleasures, and the love
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Which to an only brother he has borne
Many a long look of wonder : and at last,

In all his hardships, since that happy time
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Of carded wool which the old man had piled

Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.
He laid his implements with gentle care,

- They were the last of all their race: and now,
Each in the other locked; and, down the path When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
That from his cottage to the church-yard led, Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire
He took his way, impatient to accost

Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

* This description of the Calenture is sketched from an 'Twas one well known to him in former days, imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year

Gilbert, author of the Hurricane.

He to the solitary church-yard turned;

We are not all that perish.- I remember, That, as he knew in what particular spot

(For many years ago I passed this road) His family were laid, he thence might learn There was a foot-way all along the fields If still his Brother lived, or to the file

By the brook-side—'tis gone—and that dark cleft! Another grave was added.--He had found

To me it does not seem to wear the face
Another grave,-near which a full half-hour Which then it had !
He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew

Priest.

Nay, Sir, for aught I know, Such a confusion in his memory,

That chasm is much the same That he began to doubt; and even to hope

Leonard.

But, surely, yonderThat he had seen this heap of turf before,

Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That it was not another grave; but one

That does not play you false.-On that tall pike He had forgotten. He had lost his path,

(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked There were two springs which bubbled side by Through fields which once had been well known to side. him :

As if they had been made that they might be And oh what joy this recollection now

Companions for each other : the huge crag Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,

Was rent with lightning--one hath disappeared ; And, looking round, imagined that he saw The other, left behind, is flowing still. Strange alteration wrought on every side

For accidents and changes such as these, Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, We want not store of them ;-a water-spout And everlasting hills themselves were changed. Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast

For folks that wander up and down like you, By this the Priest, who down the field had come, | To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm Stopped short,--and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Will come with loads of January snow, Perused him with a gay complacency.

And in one night send twenty score of sheep Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,

To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies "Tis one of those who needs must leave the path By some untoward death among the rocks : Of the world's business to go wild alone :

The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; His arms have a perpetual holiday;

A wood is felled :--and then for our own homes ! The happy man will creep about the fields, A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring A daughter sent to service, a web spun, Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles

The old house-clock is decked with a new face; Into his face, until the setting sun

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates Write fool upon his forehead.—Planted thus To chronicle the time, we all have here Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate

A pair of diaries,--one serving, Sir, of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side The good Man might have communed with himself, Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Commend me to these valleys ! Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, Leonard.

Yet your Church-yard And, after greetings interchanged, and given Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, By Leonard to the Vicar as to one

To say that you are heedless of the past : Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

An orphan could not find his mother's grave : Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, life:

Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly state Your years make up one peaceful family ; Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. And welcome gone, they are so like each other, Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral

to me! Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread And yet, some changes must take place among you: If every English church-yard were like ours; And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: Can trace the finger of mortality,

We have no need of names and epitaphs ; And see, that with our threescore years and ten We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.

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