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 ' 

 
 MARIEFS PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 % $ixt-i\h Storg: 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By MARY HOWITT. 
 
 mX 
 
 
 » * J" if- 
 
 LCXNDON : 
 DAETON AND CO., HOLBOEN HILL.
 
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 ,,-in 3ft 
 
 QfA ° IT * 
 
 i lw|fsms|i, 
 
 A FIRE-SIDE STORY. 
 
 HR1STIANITY, like a little 
 child goes wandering over the 
 world. Fearless in its inno- 
 cence, it is not abashed before 
 princes, nor confounded by 
 the wisdom of synods. Before 
 it the blood-stained warrior 
 sheathes his sword, and plucks 
 the laurel from his brow ; — the 
 midnight murderer turns from his purpose, 
 
 86673?
 
 (> marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 and, like the heart-smitten disciple, goes out 
 and weeps bitterly. It brings liberty to the 
 captive, joy to the mourner, freedom to the 
 -lave, repentance and forgiveness to the sinner, 
 hope to the faint-hearted, and assurance to 
 the dying. 
 
 It enters the huts of poor men, and sits 
 down with them and their children; it makes 
 them contented in the midst of privations, 
 and leaves behind an everlasting blessing. 
 It walks through great cities, amid all their 
 pomp and splendour, their unimaginable 
 pride, and their unutterable misery, a puri- 
 fying, ennobling, correcting, and redeeming 
 angel. 
 
 It is alike the beautiful companion of 
 childhood and the comfortable associate of
 
 MARIEN S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 age. It ennobles the noble ; gives wisdom 
 to the wise ; and new grace to the lovely. 
 The patriot, the priest, the poet, and the 
 eloquent man, all derive their sublimest power 
 from its influence. 
 
 Thanks be to the Eternal Father, who has 
 made us one with Him through the benign 
 spirit of Christianity !
 
 v •' 
 
 Iter! Jfirst 
 
 Through the wide world went Marien 
 
 On a holy mission sent, 
 A little child of tender years, 
 
 Throughout the world she went.
 
 Id makh.n's pilgrimage. 
 
 And ever, as she wmt along, 
 
 Sweel Sowers Bprang 'neath her feet; 
 
 All flowers thai were most beautiful, 
 ( M' virtues strong and sweet. 
 
 And ever, as she went along, 
 The desert beasts grew tame ; 
 
 And man, the savage, dyed with blood, 
 The merciful became. 
 
 Now, if you will attend to me, 
 
 I will in order tell 
 The history of this little child, 
 
 And what to her befel. 
 
 No friend at all had Marien, 
 
 And at the break of day, 
 In a lonesome place within the world, 
 
 In quiet thought she lay. 
 
 The stars were lost in coming morn, 
 The moon was pale and dim, 
 
 And the golden sun was rising 
 Over the ocean's rim.
 
 marten's pilgrimage. 11 
 
 With upturned eye lay Marien : — 
 " And I am alone," said she, 
 "' Though the blackbird and the nightingale 
 Sing in the forest-tree : 
 
 " Though the weak woodland creatures 
 Come to me when I call, 
 And eat their food from out my hand ; 
 And I am loved by all : 
 
 " Though sun, and moon, and stars come out, 
 And flowers of fairest grace, 
 And whate'er God made beautiful, 
 Are with me in this place : 
 
 " Yet I am all alone, alone, 
 Alone both night and day ! 
 So I will forth into the world, 
 And do what good I may : 
 
 " For many a heart is sorrowful, 
 And I that heart may cheer : 
 And many a weary captive pines 
 In dungeons dark and drear ; —
 
 12 karien's pilgrimage. 
 
 Ami r the iron bonds may Loose, — 
 Then why abide I here ? 
 
 And many a spirit dark with crime, 
 
 Yet longeth to repent ; 
 And many a grievous wrong is done 
 
 To the weak and innocent; — 
 And I may do the injured right, 
 
 May save the penitent ! 
 
 " Up, I will forth into the world!" 
 And, thus as she did say, 
 Sweet Marien from the ground rose up 
 And went forth on her way. 
 
 Through the wood went Marien, 
 The thick wood and the green ; 
 
 And not far had she travelled ere 
 A cruel sieht was seen. 
 
 'b J 
 
 Under the green and leafy boughs 
 Where Hinging birds were set; 
 
 At Btrife about their heritage, 
 Two ruffian la-others met.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 13 
 
 " Thou shalt not of our father's land," 
 The elder said, " have part !" 
 The younger brother spoke no word, 
 But stabbed him to the heart. 
 
 Then deep into the forest dark 
 
 With desperate speed he ran, 
 And gentle Marien stood beside 
 
 The bleeding, murdered man. 
 
 With pitying tears that would not cease, 
 
 She washed his wounded side, 
 And prayed him to have faith in Him 
 
 Who for the sinner died. 
 
 But no sign made the murdered man, 
 
 There stiff in death he lay ; — 
 And Marien through the forest wild 
 
 Went mourning on her way. 
 
 Ere long, as she went wandering on, 
 
 She came to where there sat, 
 With folded arms upon her breast, 
 
 A woman desolate.
 
 1 1 maeien's pilgrimage. 
 
 Pale was she as the marble stone, 
 And strdtast was her eye; 
 
 Slic sat enchained, as in a trance, 
 By her great misery. 
 
 " What ails thee, mother ?" Marien said, 
 In a gentle voice and sweet ; 
 
 " What aileth thee, my mother?" 
 And knelt down at her feet. 
 
 " What aileth thee, my mother ?" 
 Kind Marien still did say ; 
 And those two words, my mother^ 
 To the lone heart found their way. 
 
 As one who wakeneth in amaze, 
 She quickly raised her head ; — 
 
 And "who is't rails me mother?" 
 Said she, "my child is dead! 
 
 " He was the last of seven sons — 
 He is dead — I have none other; — 
 This is the day they bury him ; — 
 AVho is it calls me mother ?"
 
 marien 's pilgrimage. 15 
 
 " 'Tis I," said gentle Marien, 
 " Dear soul, be comforted !" 
 But the woman only wrung her hands, 
 And cried, " My son is dead !" 
 
 " Be comforted," said Marien, 
 And then she sweetly spake 
 Of Jesus Christ, and how he came 
 The sting from death to take. 
 
 She told of all his life-long love, 
 
 His soul by suffering tried : 
 And how at last his mother stood 
 
 To see him crucified. 
 
 Of the disciples' broken hearts 
 
 She told, of pangs and pain ; 
 Of Mary at the sepulchre, 
 
 And Christ arisen again. 
 
 " Then sorrow not," she said, " as though 
 Thou wert of all bereft ; 
 For still, though thy beloved are not, 
 This blessed faith is left,
 
 16 
 
 MA It! F.N S riTX.RIMAr.F.. 
 
 " That when thy dream of life is o'er, 
 Thou slialt embrace thy seven, 
 More beautiful than earthly sons, 
 With our dear Lord in heaven !" 
 
 Down on her knees the woman fell, 
 And " bless'd be God," said she, 
 
 Who in my sorest need hath sent 
 This comforter to me !" 
 
 C ■>
 
 |p art SLttiNib. 
 
 Now Marien in the woman's house 
 
 Abode a little space, 
 And comfort to the mother came ; 
 
 And a dear daughter's place 
 
 c
 
 1^ marten's pilgrimage. 
 
 Had Marien in the woman's heart, 
 Doing the while a daughter's part. 
 
 But now 'twas time that she must go, 
 For Marion's duty was not there, 
 
 Now grief was past, and woe was done; 
 
 So, with the rising of the sun, 
 She rose up forth to fare. 
 
 " Nay, bide with me," the woman said, 
 " Or if, as thou dost say, 
 Duty forbid that this may be, 
 I a day's journey go with thee, 
 To speed thee on the way." 
 
 So forth the loving pair set out, 
 
 The woman and the child; 
 And first they crossed the desert heath, 
 
 And then the mountains wild. 
 
 And in the woman's arms she lay 
 That night within the forest hoar, 
 And the next morn, with loving heart, 
 They said farewell as those who part 
 To meet on earth no more.
 
 mamen's pilgrimage. 19 
 
 Upon her way went Marien, 
 
 From morn till set of day, 
 And the peace of God that passeth word, 
 
 Upon her spirit lay, 
 And oftentimes she sang aloud 
 
 As she went on her way. 
 
 The joyfullest song sang Marien 
 That e'er left human tongue ; 
 
 The very birds were mute to hear 
 The holy words she sung. 
 
 But now the darksome night came on, 
 And Marien laid her down 
 
 Within a little way-side cave, 
 On mosses green and brown. 
 
 And in the deepest hush of night 
 
 Eude robbers entered in ; 
 And first they ate and drank, then rose 
 
 To do a deed of sin. 
 
 c 2
 
 maeien's pilgrimage. 
 
 For with them was a feeble man, 
 
 Win mi they had robbed, and they 
 Sere came to foully murder him, 
 
 And hide him from tbe day. 
 
 dp from her Led sprang Marien, 
 With heavenly power endued; 
 
 And in her glorious innocence, 
 Stood 'mong the robbers rude. 
 
 Ye shall not take the life of man!" 
 Spake Marien low and sweet; 
 " For this will God take strict account, 
 Before his judgment-seat !" 
 
 Out from the cave the robbers fled, 
 For they believed there stood, 
 
 A spirit stern and beautiful, 
 Not aught of flesh and blood. 
 
 And two from out the robber-band 
 
 Thenceforward did repent, 
 And lived two humble christian men, 
 
 On righteous deeds intent.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 21 
 
 When from the cave the robber-band 
 
 Had fled, the aged man 
 Eose from the floor where he was laid, 
 
 And marvelling- much, began. 
 
 " Who art thou, child ? and those few words 
 Of might which thou hast spoken, 
 
 What may they be? My foes have fled— 
 And, lo ! my bonds are broken ; — 
 
 At thy few words my foes have fled, 
 My rigid bonds have broken !" 
 
 Then Marien 'gan to tell him how, 
 
 Through her Grod's power had wrought, 
 
 And him from peril, nigh to death, 
 Thus wondrously had brought. 
 
 She told how holy Daniel's faith 
 
 The caged beasts disarmed; 
 How the three righteous children walked 
 
 Through raging fire unharmed. 
 
 She told how Peter, bound with chains, 
 Lay in the prison-ward,
 
 M A in I \"> PILGEIMAG] . 
 
 How Grod'e good angel freed him straight, 
 And the strong prison's iron gate 
 0}Htl of its own accord. 
 
 ■■ God knows our wants," said Marien, 
 " And in our sorest need, 
 
 Lts forth his arm to rescue us, 
 For he is merciml, and tlms 
 It is tliat thou art freed." 
 
 Let us go hence!" the old man said, 
 
 And o'er the forest sod, 
 They, hand in hand, with quiet steps, 
 
 Went forward praising God. 
 
 Ere noontide, to a forest grange 
 They came, a sylvan place, 
 
 Where trooped, no longer fearing man, 
 The forest's native race, 
 
 The white doe and the antlered stag, 
 And every beast of chase.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 23 
 
 'Twas joy to see them drawing near 
 
 The old man as he came ; 
 And this he stroked, and that he called 
 
 By some familiar name 
 
 'Twas joy unto the little child 
 This pleasant place to see ; 
 " This is my home," he said, " and here 
 Thou shalt abide with me. 
 
 " I have no child to be mine heir, 
 And I am growing old ; — 
 Thou shalt be heir of all my lands, 
 And heir of all my gold. 
 
 " Thou shalt be comfort to mine age, 
 And here within this wood, 
 'Mongst faithful, gentle things, shalt thou 
 Grow up to womanhood ;" 
 
 There dwelt the loving Marien, 
 
 "Within the forest wild, 
 And she unto the lone old man 
 
 Was dearer than a child.
 
 2 I MA i; I F.N 's PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 There dwelt the loving Marien ; 
 
 Yet not long dwelt she there ; — 
 The old man died ; — and then came forth 
 A kinsman for the heir. 
 
 A lean and rugged man of pelf 
 
 In wickedness grown old ; 
 From some vile city-den he came 
 
 And seized upon the gold ; — 
 He slew the tamed forest-beasts, — 
 
 The forest-grange he sold, 
 
 And with hard speeches, coarse and rude, 
 
 Aw r ay the child he sent ; 
 Meek Marien answered not a word, 
 
 But through the forest went.
 
 fart Cfrtrtr. 
 
 Through the wild wood went Marien, 
 
 For many a weary day ; 
 Her food the forest-fruits, and on 
 
 The forest-turf she lay. 
 
 The wildern wood was skirted 
 By moorlands dry and brown ; 
 
 And after them came Marien 
 Into a little town.
 
 uarisn's pilgrimage. 
 
 At entrance of the little town 
 
 A cross stood by the way, 
 A rude stone cross, and there she knelt 
 
 A little prayer to say. 
 
 Then on the stone-steps sate her down ; 
 
 And soon beside her crept, 
 A pale child with a clasped book. 
 
 And all the while he wept. 
 
 " Why weep you child," asked Marien, 
 " "What troubleth you so sore?" 
 At these words spoken tenderly, 
 The child wept more and more. 
 
 " I have not heard," at length he said, 
 " Kind words this many a year, 
 My mother is dead — and my father 
 Is a hard man and severe. 
 
 "I sit in corners of the house 
 
 Where none can see me weep ; 
 And in the quiet of the day 
 Tis here I often creep.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 27 
 
 The kid leaps by his mother's side, 
 
 The singing birds are glad : 
 But when I play me in the sun, 
 
 My heart is ever sad. 
 
 " They say this blessed book can heal 
 All trouble, and therefore 
 All day I keep it in my sight ; 
 I lay it 'neath my head at night, 
 But it doth bring no cure to me : — 
 I know not what the cause may be 
 For I of learning have no store !" 
 
 Thereat, like to a broken flower 
 The child drooped down his head 
 
 Then Marien took the clasped book 
 And of the Saviour read. 
 
 She read of him the humble child 
 
 Of poverty and scorn ; 
 How holy angels sang for him 
 
 The night that he was born.
 
 28 MAKllVs PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 How blessed angels came from heav 
 To hail that Christmas night, 
 
 And shepherd people with their flocks 
 Beheld the glorious sight. 
 
 Then read she how, a growing youth, 
 
 His parents he obeyed, 
 And served with onrepining will 
 
 St. Joseph at his trade. 
 
 Then how he £rew to man's estate 
 
 And wandered up and down, 
 Preaching upon the lone sea-side, 
 
 And in the busy town. 
 
 Of all his tenderness, his love, 
 
 Page after page she read ; 
 How he made whole the sick, the maimed, 
 
 And how he raised the dead. 
 
 And how he loved the children small, 
 
 Even of low degree ; 
 And how he blessed them o'er and o'er, 
 
 And set them on his knee.
 
 marten's pilgrimage. 29 
 
 When this the little child had heard 
 He spoke in accents low, 
 " Would that I had been one with them 
 To have been blessed so!" 
 
 " Thou shalt be blessed, gentle one !" 
 
 Said Marien kind and mild, 
 " Christ, the Great Comforter, doth bless 
 
 Thee, even now, poor child !" 
 
 So conversed they of holy things 
 
 Until the closing day, 
 Then Marien and the little child 
 
 Eose up to go their way. 
 
 As to the town they came, they passed 
 
 An ancient church, and "here 
 
 Let us go in !" the pale child said, 
 
 " For the organ pealeth over head. 
 
 And that sweet strain of holy sound 
 
 Like a heavenly vesture wraps me round, 
 And my heavy heart doth cheer." 
 
 So Marien and the little child 
 Into the church they stole ;
 
 30 iiarien's pilgrimage. 
 
 And many voices rich and soft 
 Rose upward from the organ loft, 
 And the majestic instrument 
 Pealed to an anthem that was sent 
 To soothe a troubled soul. 
 
 Anon the voices died away, 
 
 The pealing organ ceased, 
 And through the church's ancient door 
 
 Passed chorister and priest. 
 
 And Marien and the little child 
 Went forward hand in hand 
 
 Adown the chancel aisle, and then 
 At once they made a stand. 
 
 Over the altar hung a piece 
 Willi h«»ly influence fraught, 
 
 A work divine of wondrous skill 
 By some old painter v lit. 
 
 The gracious Saviour breathing love, 
 Was there like life expressed, 
 
 And round his knees the children small 
 Were thronging to he blessed.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 31 
 
 Down dropped the child upon his knees, 
 
 And weeping, tenderly 
 Cried, " Bless me also, poor and weak, 
 
 Or let me go to thee !" 
 
 Anon his little head dropped low, 
 
 And his white lips 'gan to say, 
 " Oh kiss me gentle one, for now 
 
 Even I am called away — 
 The blessed mother's voice I hear, 
 
 It calleth me away !" 
 
 So died the child; — and Marien laid 
 
 His meek arms on his breast, 
 With the clasped book between his hands — 
 
 Thus God had given him rest ! 
 
 And Marien, weeping holy tears, 
 
 Sate down beside the dead, 
 And slept that night within the church, 
 
 As in a kingly bed. 
 
 Scarce from the church had Marien passed, 
 When came the father there,
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 As was his wont, though fierce and bad, 
 To say a morning prayer. 
 
 Not seven paces had he gone, 
 When, heart-struck, lie surveyed 
 
 Before his feet, that little child 
 In his dead beauty laid. 
 
 At once, as by a lightning stroke, 
 
 His softened soul was torn 
 With a deep sense of all the wrong 
 
 That little child had borne. 
 
 And then came back the timid voice, 
 
 The footstep faint and low, 
 The many little arts to please, 
 
 The look of hopeless woe, 
 And many a shuddering memory 
 
 Of harsh rebuke and blow. 
 
 No prayer of self-approving words, 
 
 As was his wont, he said, 
 But humbled, weeping, self-condemned, 
 
 He stood before the dead.
 
 I art Jfrar. 
 
 Ten long days' travel Marien went, 
 O'er woodland and o'er wold, 
 
 Teaching and preaching by the way, 
 Like Jesus Christ of old. 
 
 D
 
 34 M IlBIEN'S PILGRIM \(iE. 
 
 Sometimes within the Baron's hall 
 
 A lodging slir would find, 
 And never went she from fche door 
 
 But blessings staid behind ; 
 Proud foes Forgiven, revenge withheld, 
 
 And plenteous peace of mind. 
 
 With shepherd people on the hills; 
 
 With toiling peasant men, 
 She sate ; with women dwelling lone, 
 
 On mountain or in cden. 
 
 By wayside wells she sate her down. 
 With pilgrims old and bent; 
 
 Or, hand in hand, with children small, 
 To the village school she went. 
 
 She made them spare the singing hirds 
 
 All in their leafy bowers; 
 She made them love all living things; 
 
 And praise God for the flowers. 
 
 But now she came to where there raged 
 Wild war throughout the land ;
 
 mabien's pilgrimage. 35 
 
 She heard ihe vexed people's cry ; 
 She saw the ravaged corn-fields lie ; 
 The hamlets smoking to the sky ; 
 And everywhere careering by 
 The spoiler's savage band. 
 
 All hearts were changed. Like ravening wolves 
 
 Men preyed upon each other ; 
 Dead children lay on the bloody mould ; 
 And pitiless had grown, and cold, 
 
 The heart of many a mother. 
 
 Wild shouts and horrid shrieks around 
 
 Filled all the air ; the earth 
 Eeeked with the blood that had been spilt ; 
 
 And man made mockery and mirth 
 Of agony and mortal woe : — 
 Yet through all this did Marien go. 
 
 Outraged of heart, the child went on, 
 
 Weeping upon her way ; 
 And now she soothed a dying wretch ; 
 Then for another ran to fetch 
 
 Water; and every day 
 
 d 2
 
 36 m lrien'b pilgrim \«.i • 
 
 Dill deeds of mercy, good and mild: — 
 Thus journeyed on the pitying child. 
 
 On went she. — and as she went on, 
 
 Men grew ashamed of blood, 
 S.» beautiful did mercy Beem ; 
 
 And the wild soldier rude 
 Slunk back as slinks a noisome beast; 
 
 And to their homes once more 
 Came mothers with their little ones: 
 
 And old men, weak and hoar, 
 in the Mm as they had wont, 
 
 Onfearing at their door. 
 
 On went the child, — and as she went, 
 
 Within the Baron's hall, 
 Were hung up helm and mail and sword, 
 
 To rust upon the wall. 
 
 On went she, — and the poets sung 
 
 Xo longer war's acclaim, 
 But holy hymns of love and joy, 
 
 To hail her as she came.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 37 
 
 On went she, like an angel good ; 
 
 With bounding steps she went, 
 Day after day, until she came 
 
 To the great Conqueror's tent. 
 
 There sat he, a strong man of blood, 
 Steel-mailed and scarfed with blue, 
 
 Poring o'er charts of distant lands, 
 For new lands to subdue. 
 
 Beside him stood the gentle child ; 
 
 And now he traced with care, 
 Measuring from river unto sea, 
 
 A fertile region fair. 
 
 J t> J 
 
 " 'Tis a good land," said Marien, 
 " From river unto sea ; 
 And there a quiet people dwell, 
 Who never heard of thee. 
 
 " They feed their flocks and herds in peace ; 
 The fruitful vine they till; 
 The quiet homes then' fathers built 
 They and their children fill.
 
 makii.n's PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Even now their happy children's joy 
 
 Thee and thy will condemn; 
 Wherefore shonld'st thou possess that land: 
 
 God gave it unto them !" 
 
 Into her face the proud man looked, 
 
 Amazed at what he heard ; 
 Then turned unto his charts again, 
 
 And answered never a word. 
 
 Another land among the hills 
 He measured with his eye ; 
 " 'Tis a stern land," said Marien, 
 " A land of liberty ! 
 
 " There fled the Christians in old time, 
 And built their churches there ; 
 The bells upon the sabbath morn 
 Call all that land to prayer. 
 
 " Would'st thou God's people tribulate ; 
 A cursed thing it were
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 39 
 
 To make that christian land of love 
 
 A bloody sepulchre !" 
 The proud man turned him round about 
 
 And fiercely gazed at her. 
 
 " Eivers of blood have flowed for thee !" 
 
 Unblenching Marien said, 
 " And many a christian land hast thou 
 
 With christian blood made red. 
 
 " Up, sin no more ! 'Tis coming now, 
 The day thou canst not flee, 
 When all the thousands thou hast slain 
 God will require of thee ! 
 
 " Thou man of blood, repent, repent, 
 Eepent whilst yet thou may, 
 And store up deeds of love and peace 
 Against that awful day !" 
 
 Up from his seat the conqueror rose 
 
 And paced the uneasy tent, 
 And ground his teeth and groaned aloud, 
 
 As one that doth repent.
 
 10 
 
 MAKII.N 8 PILGRIM LGE. 
 
 Forth from the tent sped Marien; 
 
 Ami many a summer's day 
 Throughout a Messed land of peace 
 
 She journeyed on her way. 
 
 
 s 
 
 / 
 
 \ 
 
 *:-Qic 

 
 fad fik 
 
 At length, after long travel past, 
 She came as it grew late, 
 
 Along a beaten road, that led 
 To a vast city gate.
 
 \! M \i;n \'> PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 A vast and populous city, where 
 
 Rose dome, and tower, and spire, 
 And many a gilded pinnacle, 
 Far-seen, as the bright sunset fell, 
 Like glittering points of fire. 
 
 A city vast and populous, 
 Whose thronging multitude 
 
 Sent forth a sound afar-olf heard, 
 Strong as the ocean-flood. 
 
 A strong, deep sound of many sounds, 
 Toil, pleasure, pain, delight, 
 
 And traffic, myriad-wheeled, whose din 
 Ceased not by day or night. 
 
 And through the city gate a throng 
 
 Passed ever, never spent; 
 A busy mingling human tide 
 
 Of those who came and went. 
 
 Twas a proud city and a rich ; 
 A city fair and old ;
 
 MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE. 43 
 
 Filled with the world's most costly things, — 
 
 Of precious stones and gold ; 
 Of silks, fine woods, and spiceries ; 
 
 And all that's bought and sold. 
 
 Thither came homeless Marien, 
 
 Came there as it grew late, 
 Foot-sore and weary, friendless, poor, 
 
 Unto the city gate. 
 
 There found her a poor carpenter 
 
 Keturning from his trade, 
 And he, with pitying countenance, 
 
 Her weary form surveyed. 
 
 : Come!" said he, "thou unto my house, 
 
 Shalt go : and of my bread, 
 And of my cup, thou shalt partake ; 
 Shalt bide with me!" and as he spake 
 Her weary steps he led. 
 
 Unto an humble place that stood 
 'Mong dwellings of the poor
 
 1 1 marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 He brought her; l>ade her welcome thrice 
 
 Unto his lowly door. 
 
 The good-wife met her with like cheer, 
 "And though our fare ia scant, 
 Fear not/' she Baid, " whilst we have food 
 It is not thou slialt want!" 
 
 So dwelt she with this humble pair 
 In the great city; cherished so, 
 
 As parents cherish their first-horn, 
 Nor would they let her go. 
 
 Thus for a year she dwelt with them ; 
 
 And that while their abode 
 Was blessed exceedingly; their store 
 Grew daily, weekly, more and more; 
 And peace so multiplied around, 
 The very hearth seemed holy ground, 
 \- if once more on earth was found 
 The Paradise of I rod. 
 
 'Twas she that blessed the bread they ate, 
 'Twas she soothed all their cares;
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 45 
 
 They knew not that they entertained 
 An angel unawares. 
 
 With simple hearts that had no guile 
 
 They of the Saviour heard ; 
 And, weeping tears of joyful faith, 
 
 Believed and blessed each word. 
 
 No more they marvelled how their board 
 With plenteous food was spread ; 
 
 Five barley loaves dispensed by Christ, 
 The famished thousands fed. 
 
 With love that would not be repressed, 
 
 Their kindling bosoms burned, 
 And 'mong their neighbours poor they went 
 
 To teach what they had learned. 
 
 To teach how Christ unto the poor, 
 
 The sinner vile, was sent ; 
 How Mary washed his feet with tears, 
 And wiped them with her golden hairs, 
 
 A weeping penitent.
 
 K'» M\i:ii:\'s PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 And how the sinful woman stood 
 
 TJnjudged before his face ; 
 How the poor prodigal sped back 
 
 Repentanl to liis plac 
 
 How to the thief upon the cross 
 
 He said, " Thou art forgiven, 
 And thou shalt be with me this da}-, 
 
 In the paradise of Heaven." 
 
 So preached the carpenter; and men 
 
 Turned from their evil ways, 
 And christian prayer was heard around, 
 
 And christian hymns of praise. 
 
 Strange seemed these things; and to the rich, 
 
 And to the proud, 'twas told, 
 How many of the meaner sort 
 
 Lived like the saints of old. 
 
 How holy, blameless, were their lives ; 
 
 And how poor craftsmen vile. 
 Amid their fellows, tool in hand, 
 
 The gospel preached the while.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 47 
 
 'Tvvas told of Marien ; how slie came 
 A wanderer none knew whence ; 
 
 Friendless and poor, of mind mature, 
 A child in innocence ; 
 
 As thus 'twas told, some blessed God, 
 But others took offence. 
 
 CJ Why," said they, " should this simple child, 
 These men of low degree, 
 Thus preach and practise ? what new faith 
 Is there, or need there be ? 
 
 " Bishops have taught a thousand years, 
 And learned men are they; 
 These are mad doctrines, false, unfit, 
 Devised to lead astray." 
 
 Therefore the simple people were 
 
 To a full synod brought, 
 To answer for their altered lives, 
 
 And for the faith they taught. 
 
 Much marvelled all those learned men 
 To see them fearless stand,
 
 I N U \i:n n's PILGRIM m.i 
 
 I 'aim, unabashed ; with ready wit, 
 And language at command. 
 
 And to their taunts of low estate, 
 
 They answered, " Let alone 
 All pride of rank ; Christ chose the poor, 
 
 To make his gospel known. 
 
 "And what are we? — Immortal souls, 
 For whom Christ's blood was shed ; 
 Children of one great sire, with ye, 
 ( !o-heirs of I mmortality ; 
 Alike you both in birth and death ; 
 Alone our lot so differeth, 
 
 A- Grod shall judge the dead!" 
 
 Then were they questioned of old creeds; 
 
 By sophistries perplexed ; 
 So that their artless lore might fail, 
 
 Their simple souls be vexed. 
 
 lint they were stedfast in the faith 
 
 As taught the holy book; 
 And thence it was adjudged a crime 
 
 I'pon its page to look.
 
 MARIEN S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 49 
 
 And the grave synod rose in wrath, 
 
 And they were judged blasphemers dire, 
 
 And doomed, their daring heresies 
 To expiate in fire. 
 
 E
 
 
 |sri £k 
 
 So perished, for their faith in Christ, 
 This righteous couple; for their iocs 
 
 Beseeching pardon; blessing God 
 
 That they were reckoned among those 
 
 Worthy to die for Christ, whose place 
 
 Is with the Holiest face to face.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 51 
 
 Beside the pile stood Marien 
 
 Weeping sad human tears, 
 Yet strengthening, comforting the while, 
 
 And soothing all their fears. 
 
 And as she spoke, her countenance 
 
 With heavenly lustre beamed, 
 And all around her youthful form 
 
 Celestial beauty streamed. 
 
 Men looked on her with wondering awe, 
 
 As on an angel's face, 
 And pity, and love, and sweet remorse, 
 
 In every heart had place. 
 
 Throughout the city rang the tale 
 
 Of this divinest child ; 
 And for her sake unto her faith 
 
 Many were reconciled. 
 
 Unto the synod came these things ; 
 
 And "here let her be brought, 
 To answer for herself," they said, 
 
 " And suffer as she ought." 
 
 e 2
 
 52 m\ run's pilgrimage. 
 
 As Christ among the doctors stood, 
 
 So she among these men, 
 Stern, rugged-browed, and deeply versed 
 
 In parchment and in pen ; 
 .Meekly she stood ; when they reviled. 
 
 Reviling not again. 
 
 Vet with sweet words and argument, 
 
 Bather of* love than lore, 
 She pleaded for the faith, as ne'er 
 
 Pled youthful tongue before. 
 
 All were amazed who heard her words; 
 
 And straightway spoke each one 
 Unto his neighbour, "Through this child 
 
 May mighty things be done ! " 
 
 Then threatening words anon grew soft, 
 " And thou with us shalt go." 
 They said, " and with the poor and vile, 
 No longer suffer woe. 
 
 "' Thou shalt be clothed in purple robes, 
 In gold and linen fine ;
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 53 
 
 Shalt eat the daintiest food ; shalt drink 
 The spirit-gladdening wine. 
 
 " And with us in prond palaces 
 A crowned queen shalt be ; 
 Leave but these men, for they are poor, 
 And can do nought for thee ! 
 
 " Behold the stake at which they burn — 
 The iron-rack behold — 
 Are these the men to make thee rich 
 With silver and with gold? 
 
 " Come with us, glorious Marien, 
 And in our places high, 
 We will exalt thee as a queen, 
 Will deck thee royally!" 
 
 " Nay," said sweet Marien, " as a queen 
 It is not I may bide ; 
 I am not won with power nor gold, 
 Nor aught of human pride.
 
 5 I MAKM.n's pilgrimage. 
 
 " Who clothes the lilies of the field, 
 Will clothe me, even as they; 
 Who hears the ravens when they cry, 
 Will feed me day by day !" 
 
 But still the tempters kept with her; 
 
 And " Come away," they said, 
 And she unto a sumptuous dome 
 
 With royal pomp was led. 
 
 They showed her all that palace proud ; 
 
 They showed her store of gold ; 
 They told her of a hundred realms, 
 
 And wealth a hundred-fold. 
 
 " And all this shall be thine," they said, 
 "All this be thine, and more, 
 So thou wilt bind thyself to us, 
 And leave the weak and poor ! 
 
 " Thou that art weak and poor thyself, 
 A crowned queen shalt be ! "
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 55 
 
 Said Marien, " In the wilderness 
 The Tempter came, and he 
 
 Offered to Jesus Christ such gifts 
 As now ye offer me!" 
 
 Those rugged brows grew dark. " Come now 
 With us," they fiercely said, 
 " And see what never daylight saw, 
 The halls of dool and dread!" 
 
 Then unto chambers hidden, vast, 
 
 Mysterious, far from view, 
 They led her ; there was set the rack, 
 
 The knotted cord, the screw, 
 And many a horrid instrument, 
 
 Whose dark ensanguined hue 
 Told of their purpose. " These," said they, 
 
 Many strange wonders do ! 
 
 " Look well ; could' st thou endure these things ? 
 Strong men have died ere now 
 Under their torment ; men were they, 
 A little child art thou!"
 
 56 marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 Then Mariei) meekly answered, " What 
 
 God suffereth you to dare, 
 He, to whom darkness is as light, 
 
 Will strengthen me to bear!" 
 
 " Come onward yet," they said ; and down 
 Damp, broken stairs they went; 
 Down, down to hidden vaults of stone, 
 Through vapours pestilent. 
 
 And then with sullen iron keys 
 They opened doors of stone ; 
 
 And heavy-chained captives there 
 They show r ed her, one by one. 
 
 Old, white-haired men ; men middle-aged, 
 That had been strong of limb ; 
 
 But each, now pallid, hollow-eyed, 
 Like spectres worn and dim. 
 
 And many, as the dull door oped, 
 Ne'er lifted up the head ; —
 
 MARIEN S PILGRIMAGE. 57 
 
 Heart-broken victims of long pain, 
 Whose very hope was dead. 
 
 Others with feverish restlessness 
 
 Sprang up, and with quick cry, 
 That thrilled the hearer to the soul, 
 
 Demanded liberty. 
 
 With bleeding heart went Marien on ; 
 And her conductors spake, 
 " These are our victims ; these await 
 The rack, the cord, the stake. 
 
 " And as these are, so shalt thou be, 
 If thou our will gainsay ; 
 Accept our service, pride, and power ; 
 
 Or, on this very day, 
 Eacked, prisoned, poor, and miserable, 
 Thou shalt be, even as they 1" 
 
 Down on the floor sank Marien, 
 And, " Oh, dear Lord," she cried,
 
 :>* 
 
 MAIM IN S PM.CKIMACK. 
 
 "Assist thy ppoj and trembling one 
 
 This awful hour to bide; 
 Let me be strong to do thy will, 
 Like Him who bowed, and died!" 
 
 The}' took her : — of that prison-house, 
 The secrets who may say? — 
 
 Racked, fettered, captived, in their power, 
 The gentle Marien lay ; 
 
 Captive within their torture-halls, 
 A long night and a day !
 
 Iflart Sdicii 
 
 When forth they brought her; gave her wine, 
 
 And pleasant food to eat ; 
 And " rest thee, Marien, in our arms," 
 
 Sung syren-voices sweet.
 
 60 M A 1 : 1 1 n's PILGR] u \<,r. 
 
 " Rest thco within our arms ; refresh 
 
 Tli} r fainting soul with wine ; 
 
 Eat and be glad; forget the past, 
 
 And make all pleasure thine ! 
 
 " Tempt me not !" said the feeble child, 
 "Take hence } r our spiced bowl; 
 Is 't not enough to rack my limbs. 
 But you must vex my soul ? 
 
 " Look at my flesh, which ye have torn ; 
 Look at your bloody rack ; — 
 Take hence your gifts, and let me go 
 To my own people back. 
 
 " To my own people let me go, 
 A bruised and broken reed ; 
 I for your purpose am unmeet ; 
 Let me go hence with speed !" 
 
 So, in her weakness, prayed the child, 
 But those remorseless men, 
 
 ft 
 
 ^brVdead than living, bore her back
 
 mariem's pilgrimage. CI 
 
 Into a noisome prison-house, 
 
 With iron-doors made fast, 
 'Mong felons and 'mong murderers, 
 
 Was gentle Marien cast. 
 
 Upon the hard, cold prison-floor, 
 
 Sick unto death she lay, 
 As if God had forsaken her, 
 
 For many a weary day. 
 
 She thought of her sweet forest life, 
 
 And of those creatures small, 
 Weak, woodland creatures, tamed by love, 
 
 That came unto her call. 
 
 She thought of him, the forest-lord, 
 
 And of the forest-grange ; 
 Of the delicious life she led, 
 
 With liberty to range. 
 
 And as she thought, even as a child's, 
 The ceaseless tears did flow, , 
 
 For torturing pain and misery _jSt' 
 
 Had brought her spirit low. ^ *A
 
 62 y akh.n's pilgrim lge. 
 
 When one from out the felon-band 
 
 Came softly to her side, 
 And "do not weep, thou little child!" 
 With pitying voice, lie cried. 
 
 "At sight of thee, I know not why, 
 My softened heart doth burn, 
 And the gone tenderness of youth 
 Doth to my soul return. 
 
 " I think upon my early days, 
 
 Like unto days of heaven; 
 And I, that have not wept for }-ears, 
 Even as a child, shed ceaseless tears, 
 
 And pray to be forgiven !" 
 
 " Blessed be God !" said Marien, 
 
 And rose up from the floor ; 
 " I was not hither brought in vain ! 
 
 His mercy I adore, 
 Who out of darkness brought forth light !" 
 
 And thus she wept no more.
 
 MARIEN S PILGRIMAGE. C3 
 
 But ever of the Saviour taught, 
 
 How he came down to win, 
 With love, and suffering manifold, 
 
 The sinner from his sin. 
 
 How, not to kings and mighty men 
 
 He came, nor to the wise, 
 But to the thief and murderer, 
 
 And those whom men despise. 
 
 And how, throughout the host of heaven 
 
 Goes yet a louder praise 
 O'er one poor sinner who doth turn, 
 
 From his unrighteous ways, 
 Than o'er a hundred godly men, 
 
 Who sin not all their days. 
 
 Thus with the felons she ahode, 
 
 And that barred prison rude 
 Was as if angels dwelt therein, 
 
 And not fierce men of blood ; 
 For God had her captivity 
 
 Turned into means of good.
 
 64 M \im \'s pilgrimage. 
 
 Xow all this while sweet Marion's friends, 
 
 Who in the town remained, 
 Of her took painful thought, resolved 
 
 Her freedom should he gained. 
 
 And at the last they compassed it, 
 "With labour long and great ; 
 
 And through the night they hurried her, 
 Unto the city-gate. 
 
 There many a mother stood and child, 
 
 Weeping with friendly woe, 
 Thus, thus to meet, as 'twere frooi death, 
 
 And then to bid her go. 
 
 To bid her go, whom so they loved, 
 Nor once more see her face ; 
 
 To bid her go ; to speed her forth 
 To some more friendly place. 
 
 Thus, amid blessings, prayers, and tears. 
 
 About the break of day, 
 She left the city ; praising God 
 For her release ; and swiftly trod 
 
 Upon her unknown way.
 
 I lit ftiffct 
 
 A bow-shot from the city-gate 
 Turned Marien from the plain, 
 
 Intent by unfrequented ways 
 The mountain-land to gain.
 
 66 marien's pilgrimaq] . 
 
 Willi bounding step she onward went, 
 
 Over the moorland fells ; 
 O'er fragrant i racks of purple thyme, 
 
 And crimson heather-bells. 
 
 Joyful in her release she went, 
 
 Still onward yet, and higher ; 
 Up many a mossy, stony steep, 
 Through many a flock of mountain sheep, 
 By the hill-tarns so dark and deep, 
 
 As if she could not tire. 
 
 Onward and upward still she went 
 
 Among the breezy hills, 
 Singing for very joyfulness 
 
 Unto the sino-inrr rills. 
 
 The days of her captivity, 
 
 The days of fear and pain, 
 Were past, and now through shade and shine, 
 
 She wandered free again. 
 
 •■&' 
 
 Free, like the breezes of the hill, 
 Free, like the waters wild;
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 67 
 
 And in her fulness of delight, 
 Unceasingly from height to height 
 Went on the blessed child. 
 
 And ever when she needed food, 
 
 Some wanderer of the hill 
 Drew forth the morsel from Ms scrip, 
 
 And bade her eat her fill. 
 
 For He who fed by Cherith-brook 
 
 The prophet in his need, 
 Of this his wandering little one 
 
 Unceasingly had heed. 
 
 And ever when she needed rest, 
 
 Some little cove she found, 
 So green, so sheltered, and so still, 
 Upon the bosom of the hill, 
 
 As angels girt it round. 
 
 Thus hidden 'mong the quiet hills 
 
 Alone, yet wanting nought, 
 She dwelt secure, imtil her foes 
 
 For her no longer sought. 
 
 o
 
 (» s mabien'b PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Then forth she journeyed. Soon the hills 
 Were of more smooth descent ; 
 
 And downward now, and onward still, 
 Toward the sea she went. 
 
 Toward the great sea for many days ; 
 
 And now she heard its roar; 
 Had sunlit glimpses of it now, 
 
 And now she trod the shore. 
 
 A rugged shore of broken cliffs, 
 And barren wave-washed sand, 
 
 Where only the dry sea-wheat grew 
 By patches on the strand. 
 
 A weary way walked Maritn 
 
 Beside the booming sea, 
 Nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman 
 
 Throughout the day saw she. 
 
 A weary, solitary way ; 
 
 And as the day declined 
 Over the dark and troubled sea 
 
 Arose a stormy wind.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 69 
 
 The heavy waves came roaring in 
 
 With the strong coming tide ; 
 The rain poured down, and deep dark night 
 
 Closed in on every side. 
 
 There stood the homeless Marien 
 
 With bare, unsandaled feet ; 
 And on her form, with pitiless force, 
 
 The raging tempest beat. 
 
 Clasping her hands, she stood forlorn, 
 " In tempest, and in night :" 
 She cried " Lord, I trust in thee, 
 And thou wilt lead me right !" 
 
 Now underneath a shelving bank 
 
 Of sea-driven sand, there stood 
 A miserable hut, the home 
 
 Of a poor fisher good. 
 
 Whose loving wife but yesternight 
 
 Died in his arms, and he, 
 Since that day's noon alone had been 
 
 Casting his nets at sea.
 
 70 marten's pilgrimage. 
 
 At noon lie kissed his little ones, 
 
 And would be back, he said, 
 Lon^ ere niirht closed ; but with the night 
 
 Arose that tempest dread. 
 
 It was an old and crazy boat, 
 
 Wherein the man was set, 
 And soon 't was laden heavily 
 
 With many a laden net. 
 
 " Oh sorrow, sorrow !" groaned he forth, 
 As rose the sudden squall, 
 Thinking upon the mother dead, 
 And on his children small. 
 
 "Oh sorrow, sorrow!" loud he cried. 
 As the helm flew from his hand, 
 And he knew the boat was sinking 
 But half a league from land. 
 
 " Oh soitow, sorrow !" as he sank 
 Was still his wailing cry: 
 And Marien heard amid the storm, 
 That voice of misery.
 
 MARIEN S PILGRIMAGE. 71 
 
 Now all this while the children small 
 
 Kept in their dreary place, 
 Troubled and sad, and half afear'd 
 
 Of their dead mother's face. 
 
 And when, to while the time, they played 
 
 With shells beside the door, 
 They found they had not hearts for mirth, 
 
 And so they played no more. 
 
 Yet keeping up with forced content 
 Their hearts as best they might, 
 
 Still wishing afternoon were gone, 
 And it was only night. 
 
 But when, hour after hour went on, 
 
 And the night-tempest black 
 Eaged o'er the stormy sea, and still 
 
 The father came not back; 
 
 It would have touched a heart of stone 
 
 To see their looks of fear — 
 So young and so forlorn ; — their words 
 
 Of counsel small to hear.
 
 72 makien's pilgrimage. 
 
 And now they shouted through the storm; 
 
 And then, with better wit, 
 As they had seen their mother do, 
 
 A fire of wood they lit, 
 That he might see the light afar, 
 
 And steer his boat by it. 
 
 Unto this light came Marien ; 
 
 And ere her weary feet 
 Had reached the floor, the children ran 
 
 With eager arms to meet 
 Their loving father, as they thought, 
 
 And give him welcome sweet. 
 
 Alas ! the father even then 
 
 Had run his mortal race ; 
 But God had sent this comforter 
 
 To iill his earthly place.
 
 fitri Siw. 
 
 Woe's me, what secret tears are shed, 
 What wounded spirits bleed ; 
 
 What loving hearts are sundered, 
 And yet man takes no heed ! 
 
 He goeth on his daily course, 
 Made fat with oil and wine
 
 makien's pilgrimage. 
 
 And pitieth not the weary souls 
 
 That in his bondage pine ; 
 That turn for him the mazy wheel; 
 
 That delve for him the mine ! 
 
 And pitieth not the children small, 
 
 In noisy factories dim, 
 That all day long, lean, pale, and faint, 
 
 Do heavy tasks for him ! 
 
 To him they are but as the stones 
 
 Beneath his feet that lie : 
 It entereth not his thoughts that they 
 
 From him claim sympathy. 
 
 It entereth not his thoughts that God 
 Hearcth the sufferer's groan, 
 
 That in His righteous eye, their life 
 Is precious as his own. 
 
 This moves him not. But let us now 
 
 Unto the fisher's shed, 
 Where sat his weeping little ones 
 
 Three days beside the dead.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 75 
 
 It was a solitary waste 
 
 Of barren sand, which bore 
 
 No sign of human dwelling-place 
 For miles alone* the shore. 
 
 i & 
 
 Yet to the scattered dwellers there 
 Sped Marien, and besought 
 
 That of the living and the dead 
 They would take christian thought. 
 
 So in the churchyard by the sea 
 The senseless dead was laid : 
 " And now what will become of us I" 
 • The weeping children said. 
 
 " For who will give us bread to eat ? 
 The neighbours are so poor ! 
 And he, our kinsman in the town, 
 "Would drive us from his door. 
 
 " For he is rich and pitiless, 
 
 With heart as cold as stone ! 
 Who will be parents to us now 
 That ours are dead and gone ?"
 
 '6 mabien's pilgrimage. 
 
 " Weep not," said faithful Marini, 
 " Man's heart is not so hard, 
 But it your friendless misery 
 Will tenderly regard! 
 
 " And I with you will still abide 
 Your friendless souls to cheer, 
 Be father and mother both to you ; 
 For this God sent me here. 
 
 " And to your kinsman in the town, 
 Who hath such store of gold, 
 I will convey you : God can change 
 His spirit stern and cold. 
 
 " And ye, like angels of sweet love, 
 From earth his soul may win. 
 Fear not; and we with morning light 
 The journey will begin." 
 
 They took their little worldly store; 
 
 And at the break of day, 
 Leaving the lonesome sea-side shed, 
 
 Set out upon their way.
 
 MARIEN S F1LGRIMAGE. 77 
 
 'Mong sandy hills their way they wound; 
 
 O'er sea-grass dusk and harsh ; 
 By many a land-mark lone and still ; 
 
 Through many a salt sea-marsh. 
 
 And thus for twice seven days they went 
 
 A little, loving band, 
 "Walking along their weary way ; 
 
 Like angels, hand in hand. 
 
 And everywhere kind christian folks 
 
 They found, as Marien said, 
 Who gave them lodging for the night, 
 
 And gave them daily bread. 
 
 And thus they pilgrimed, day by day, 
 
 Alone yet not cast down, 
 Strengthened by Marien's company, 
 
 Unto the sea-port town. 
 
 A busy town beside the sea, 
 
 Where men were all astir, 
 Buying and selling; eager-eyed, 
 Two different races, yet allied, — 
 
 Merchant and mariner.
 
 7 v M MMK.x's PILGRIM \<.K. 
 
 A place of ships, whose name was known 
 
 Far off, beyond the main ; 
 A busy place of trade, where nought 
 
 Was in repute but gain. 
 
 Thither they came, those children poor, 
 
 About the eventide; 
 And where dwelt he, their kinsman rich, 
 
 They asked on every side. 
 
 After long asking, one they found, 
 
 An old man and a poor, 
 Who undertook to lead them straight 
 
 Unto the kinsman's door. 
 
 But ever as he went along 
 
 He to himself did say. 
 Low broken sentences, as thus, 
 " Their kinsman ! — well-a-way !" 
 
 All through a labyrinth of walls 
 Blackened with cloudy smoke, 
 
 He led them, where was heard the forge 
 And the strong hammer's stroke
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 79 
 
 And beneath lofty windows dim 
 
 In many a doleful row, 
 Whence came the jangle of quick looms, 
 
 Down to the courts below. 
 
 Still on the children, terrified, 
 
 With wildered spirits passed ; 
 Until of these great mammon halls, 
 
 They reached the heart at last, — 
 A little chamber hot and dim, 
 
 With iron bars made fast. 
 
 There sate the kinsman, shrunk and lean, 
 
 And leaden-eyed and old, 
 Busied before a lighted lamp 
 
 In sealing bags of gold. 
 
 The moment that they entered in, 
 
 He clutched with pallid fear 
 His heavy bags, as if he thought 
 
 That sudden thieves were near. 
 
 ' Eich man !" said Marien, " ope thy bags 
 And of thy gold be free,
 
 Ml makii.n's PILGRIM L61 '. 
 
 Make gladsome cheer, for Heaven hath sent 
 A blessing unto thee !" 
 " What !" said the miser, " is there news 
 Of my lost Argosy ?" 
 
 " Better than gold, or merchant-ships, 
 
 Is that which thou shalt win," 
 Said Marien, " thine immortal soul 
 From its black load of sin. 
 
 " Look at these children, thine own blood," 
 And then their name she told ; 
 
 " Open thine heart to do them good, 
 To love them more than gold ; — 
 And what thou givest will come back 
 To thee, a thousand-fold !" 
 
 " Ah," said the miser, " even these 
 
 Some gainful work may do, 
 My looms stand still; of youthful hands 
 
 I have not half enow ; 
 I shall have profit in their toil; 
 
 Yes, child, thy words are true !"
 
 marien's pilgrimage. SI 
 
 " Thou fool I" said Marien, " still for gain, 
 To cast thy soul away ! 
 The Lord be judge 'twixt these and thee 
 Upon his reckoning day ! 
 " These little one's are fatherless, — 
 He sees them day and night; 
 And as thou doest unto them, 
 On thee he will requite 1" 
 
 " Gave I not alms upon a time?" 
 
 Said he with anger thrilled ; 
 " And when I die, give I not gold, 
 
 A stately church to build ? 
 
 " What would'st thou more ? my flesh and 
 blood 
 I seek not to gainsay. 
 But what I give, is it unmeet 
 Their labour should repay 1" 
 
 So saying, in an iron chest, 
 
 He locked his bags of gold. 
 And bade the children follow him, 
 
 In accents harsh and cold. 
 
 G
 
 
 part (Ten 
 
 " On leave us not, sweet Marion !" 
 The little children spake ; 
 
 " For if thou leave us here, alone, 
 Our wretched hearts will break.
 
 mamen's pilgrimage. S3 
 
 She left them not — kind Marien ! 
 
 And in a noisome room, 
 Day after day, week after week, 
 
 They laboured at the loom. 
 
 The while they thought with longing souls 
 
 Upon the breezy strand, 
 The flying shuttles, to and fro, 
 
 Passed through each little hand. 
 
 The while they thought with aching hearts, 
 
 Upon their parents dear, 
 The growing web was watered, 
 
 With many a bitter tear. 
 
 And the sweet memory of the past, — 
 The white sands stretching wide ; 
 
 Their father's boat wherein they played, 
 Upon the rocking tide; 
 
 The sandy shells ; the sea-mew's scream ; 
 
 The ocean's ceaseless boom ; 
 Came to them like a troubling dream, 
 
 Within the noisy loom. 
 
 g 2
 
 Si marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 \V<>- worth those children, hard bested, 
 
 A weary life they knew ; 
 Their hands were thin ; their cheeks were pale, 
 
 That were of rosy hue. 
 
 The miser kinsman in and out 
 
 Passed ever and anon : 
 Xor ever did he speak a word, 
 
 Except to urge them on. 
 
 Wo-worth those children, hard bested, 
 They worked the livelong day; 
 
 Xor was there one, save Marien, 
 A soothing word to say : — 
 
 So, amid toil and pain of heart, 
 The long months wore away. 
 
 The long, the weary months passed on, 
 
 And the hard kinsman told 
 Over his profits ; every loom 
 
 Increased the hoard of gold ; 
 Tis well!" said he, "let more be spun, 
 
 That more may yet be sold !"
 
 marten's pilgrimage. 85 
 
 So passed the time; and with the toil 
 
 Of children weak and poor, 
 The sordid kinsman's treasure-hoards 
 
 Increased more and more. 
 
 But ere a year was come and gone, 
 
 The spirit of the boy- 
 Was changed; with natures fierce and rude 
 
 He found his chiefest joy. 
 
 m 
 
 The hardness of the kinsman's soul 
 
 "Wrought on him like a spell, 
 Exciting in his outraged heart, 
 
 Revenge and hatred fell : 
 The will impatient of control ; 
 
 The spirit to rebel. 
 
 Hence was there warfare 'twixt the two, 
 The weak against the strong; — 
 
 A hopeless, miserable strife 
 That could not last for long: 
 
 How can the young, the poor, contend 
 Against the rich man's wrong !
 
 SG maim en's hlgrimAi i 
 
 Tlie tender trouble of his eye, 
 Was gone ; his brow was cold ; 
 
 His speech, like that of desperate men, 
 Was reckless, fierce, and bold. 
 
 Ko more he kissed his sister's cheek ; 
 
 Nor soothed her as she wept ; 
 Ko more he said at Marien's knee 
 
 His prayer's before he slept. 
 
 But tbfcy, the solitary pair, 
 Like pitying angels, poured 
 
 Tears for the sinner ; and with groans 
 His evil life deplored. 
 
 Man knew not of that secret grief, 
 Which in their bosoms lay ; 
 
 And for the sinful brother's sin, 
 Yet harder doom had they. 
 
 But God, who trieth hearts ; who knows 
 The springs of human will; 
 
 Who is a juster judge than man, 
 Of mortal good and ill;
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 87 
 
 He saw those poor despised ones, 
 Ajid willed them still to mourn ; 
 
 He saw the wandering prodigal, 
 Yet bade him not return. 
 
 In his good time that weak one's woe, 
 
 Would do its work of grace ; 
 And the poor prodigal, himself, 
 
 Would seek the father's face ; — 
 Meantime man's judgment censured them, 
 
 As abject, mean, and base. 
 
 The erring brother was away, 
 
 And none could tell his fate ; 
 And the young sister at the loom, 
 
 Sate drooping, desolate. 
 
 She mourned not for her parents dead, 
 
 Nor for the breezy shore : 
 And now the weary, jangling loom 
 
 Distracted her no more. 
 
 Like one that worketh in a dream, 
 So worked she day by day,
 
 S3 marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 Intent upon the loving grief, 
 
 "Which on her spirit lay ; 
 And as she worked, and as she grieved, 
 
 Her young life wore away. 
 
 And they who saw her come and go, 
 Oft said, with pitying tongue, 
 " Alas, that labour is the doom, 
 Of aught so weak and young !' 
 
 Alone the kinsman pitied not ; 
 
 He chid her, that no more 
 The frame was strong, the hand was swift, 
 
 As it had been before. 
 
 — All for the child was dark on earth, 
 
 When holy angels bright 
 Unbarred the golden gates of heaven 
 
 For her one winter's night. 
 
 "Within a chamber poor and low, 
 
 Upon a pallet bed, 
 She lay, and " hold my hand, sweet friend," 
 
 "With feeble voice she said.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 89 
 
 " Oh hold my hand, sweet Marien," 
 
 The dying child spake low; 
 *' And let me hear thy blessed voice, 
 
 To cheer me as I go ! 
 
 "'Tis darksome all — Oh, drearly dark! 
 "When will this gloom pass by? 
 Is there no comfort for the poor, 
 And for the young who die !" 
 
 Down by her side knelt Marien, 
 
 And kissed her fading cheek, 
 Then of the loving Savionr, 
 
 In low tones 'gan to speak. 
 
 She told of Lazarus, how he lay, 
 
 A beggar mean and poor, 
 And died, in misery and want, 
 
 Beside the rich man's door. 
 
 Yet how the blessed angels came, 
 
 To bear his soul on high, 
 Within the glorious courts of heaven, 
 
 On Abraham's breast to lie.
 
 90 ma kiln's pilgrimage. 
 
 She told how children, when they die, 
 
 Yet higher glory win, 
 And see the Father face to face, 
 
 Un soiled by tainting sin. 
 
 " Blessed be God !" the child began, 
 " I donbt not, neither fear, 
 All round about the bed, behold, 
 The angel-bands appear ! 
 
 " I go ! — yet still, dear Marien, 
 One last boon let me win !■ — 
 Seek out the poor lost prodigal, 
 And bring him back from sin ! 
 
 " I go ! I go !" — and angels bright, 
 The spirit bare away ; — 
 On earth 'twas darksome, dreary night, 
 In heaven 'twas endless day ! 
 
 — And now, upon that selfsame night, 
 
 Within a carved bed, 
 Lay the rich kinsman wrapped in lawn, 
 
 With pillows 'neath his head.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 91 
 
 Scheming deep schemes of gold, he lay 
 
 All in that lordly room ; 
 Blessing himself that he had stores 
 
 For many years to come. 
 
 Just then an awful form spake low, 
 A form that none might see : 
 " Thou fool, this very night thy soul, 
 Shall be required of thee !" 
 
 And when into that chamber fair, 
 
 Stole in the morning-ray, 
 A lifeless corpse, upon his bed, 
 
 The miser kinsman lay. 
 
 — Beside his door stood solemn mutes; 
 
 And chambers high and dim, 
 Where hung was pall, and mourning rights 
 
 Made show of grief for him. 
 
 Full fifty muffled mourners stood, 
 
 Around the scutcheoned bed, 
 That held the corse, as if, indeed, 
 
 A righteous man were dead.
 
 92 
 
 MAR1EN S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 "VYithin a tomb, whicli he had built, 
 
 Of costly marble-stone, 
 They buried him, and plates of brass 
 
 His name and wealth made known. 
 
 A coffin of the meanest wood, 
 
 The little child received ; 
 And o'er her humble, nameless grave, 
 
 No hooded mourner grieved. 
 
 Only kind Marien wept such tears, 
 As the dear Saviour shed, 
 
 When in the house at Bethany 
 He mourned for Lazarus dead.
 
 mi flEIffren. 
 
 Now from the miser kinsman's house 
 Came many a jovial sound; 
 
 And lavish heirs had spent his gold, 
 Ere twelve months had gone round.
 
 94 mauien's pilgrimage. 
 
 That while within the busy town 
 Dwelt Marien ; and each day, 
 
 In some good deed of christian love 
 And mercy, passed away. 
 
 For many an abject dweller there, 
 Grief-bowed and labour-spent, 
 
 Groaned forth, amid his little ones, 
 To heaven his sad lament ; 
 
 And unto such, to raise, to cheer, 
 The sent of God, she went. 
 
 But she who, even as they, was poor, 
 
 Failed not of daily bread ; 
 A stranger, many took her in, 
 
 And warmed, and clothed, and fed. 
 
 And when a sickness sore befel, 
 
 And nigh to death she lay, 
 Kind hearts there were who came to her, 
 
 And watched her night and day. 
 
 And afterwards, when evil men 
 Doomed her in bonds to lie,
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 95 
 
 Many a true, noble friend arose, 
 Willing for her to die. 
 
 Oil, blessed christian hearts, who thus 
 
 Unto this little one 
 Did deeds of love ; for as to Christ 
 
 These righteous works were done ! 
 And they who blessed her, for themselves 
 
 A tenfold blessing won ! 
 
 Thus dwelt sweet Marien in the town 
 
 For many a passing year ; 
 Yet of the poor, lost prodigal 
 
 No tidings could she hear. 
 
 She found him not ; but yet she found 
 
 Others who, even as he, 
 Had gone astray and pined forlorn 
 
 In hopeless misery. 
 
 To these repentant, outcast ones, 
 
 She spake kind words of grace, 
 And led them back, with yearning hearts, 
 
 To seek the Father's face;
 
 9G marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 To find forgiveness in His heart, 
 And love in His embrace. 
 
 Oil blessed, blessed Marien ! 
 
 — But let us now recall 
 AVhate'er bad happed of change and woe 
 
 Unto the prodigal. 
 
 He saw his little sister pine ; 
 
 He saw her silent woe ; 
 He saw her strength decline, yet still 
 
 Her weary labour grow. 
 
 As this he saw, yet more and more 
 
 He hated that hard man, 
 With whom their cheerless misery, 
 
 Their daily tasks began. 
 
 And even to true Marien, 
 He bare an altered mind; — 
 
 Alas, that injuries should make 
 Else loving hearts unkind ! 
 
 But so it is ! and when the twain 
 
 To cheer his spirit strove, 
 His wrath arose, and he repelled 
 
 Their patient deeds of love.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 97 
 
 Then evil men assailed his youth ; 
 
 And he who was so frail 
 In suffering, 'gainst the tempter's might 
 
 Was feeble to prevail. 
 
 He was their easy prey ; their tool ; 
 
 And bravely clothed and fed, 
 In desperate scenes, mid desperate men, 
 
 A lawless life he led. 
 
 Yet often to his soul came back 
 
 Sweet memory of the time, 
 When he, a happy, thoughtless child, 
 
 Had knowledge of no crime. 
 
 And like a heavier, wearier woe, 
 
 Than labour night and day, 
 The consciousness of evil deeds 
 
 Upon his spirit lay. 
 
 He thought of slighted Marien, 
 
 And of the sister meek ; 
 Of the thin hands that plied the loom, 
 
 And of the fading cheek ;
 
 marikx's pilgrimage. 
 
 Yet how he had deserted them, 
 The faithful and the weak ! 
 
 He heard his loving parents' voice 
 
 Reproach him in his sleep ; 
 And conscience, that stern bosom-guest, 
 
 Ceaseless upbraidings keep. 
 
 Yet, for the hated kinsman's sake, 
 
 Neither would he regard ; 
 And, because man was hard to him, 
 
 Made his own nature hard. 
 
 Thus doing outrage to his soul, 
 
 By chance he went one day 
 Through the brown trodden church-yard, where 
 
 The little sister lay. 
 
 A sexton there at work he found ; 
 
 And why he turned the mould 
 So carefully, he asked, since there 
 
 No name the tenant told.
 
 marten's pilgrimage. 90 
 
 Replied he, "In this wide church-yard 
 I know each separate mound ; 
 
 Yet unto me that little grave 
 Alone seems holy ground." 
 
 And then he told of Marien, 
 And how she there had wept 
 
 Over the child, that neath the mould, 
 In dreamless quiet slept. 
 
 * A little, friendless pauper child, 
 She lieth here," said he; 
 Yet not a grave in all the ground 
 Like this affecteth me !" 
 
 Saying this, he wiped a tear aside, 
 And turned from the place ; 
 
 And, in the skirts of his rich robe, 
 The brother hid his face. 
 
 — He left the town; and in a ship, 
 
 Bound for a far-off strand, 
 He took his voyage ; but distress 
 
 Pursued her from the land. 
 
 n 2
 
 170 marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 At first disease was 'mong her men ; 
 
 And suH'cring long and sore, 
 In midst of joyless, suffering mates, 
 Forlorn and sad lie bore. 
 
 Next mutiny brake forth ; and then 
 
 That miserable ship, 
 As if there were no port for her, 
 Without a wind the sails to stir, 
 
 Lay moveless on the deep. 
 
 As Jonah, fleeing from the Lord, 
 
 The soul-struck penitent 
 Lay self-condemned, believing all 
 
 On his account were sent. 
 
 Anon a tempest rose, and drove 
 
 The ship before the gale, 
 For three long days, and bore away 
 
 Her rudder, mast, and sail. 
 
 On the fourth night dark land appeared, 
 And tin 1 strained vessel bore 
 
 Bight on the rocky reef, and lay 
 A wreck upon the shore.
 
 MARIEN S PILGRIMAGE. 101 
 
 At day-break only lie remained 
 
 To note the vessel's fate ; — 
 The Crusoe of a desert isle, 
 
 Abject and desolate. 
 
 — The world went on as it was wont ; 
 
 And in the city street, 
 And in the busy market-place, 
 
 Did thronging thousands meet. 
 
 Upon the hearths of poor men's homes 
 
 Grood neighbours met at night; 
 And kindness and companionship 
 
 Made woe and labour lisrht. 
 
 The loneliest hut anions: the hills 
 
 To human hearts was known ; 
 And even in kingly palaces 
 
 Men might not dwell alone. 
 
 The world went on as was its wont ; 
 
 And no man knew the while 
 Of that poor lonely prodigal, 
 
 Upon his lonely isle.
 
 102 makien's pilgrimage. 
 
 He clomb the cliffs to look afar 
 
 Over the distant sea ; 
 If, please God, for his rescuing 
 
 A coming sail might be. 
 
 He lit his beacon fires at night ; 
 
 He hoisted signals high ; — 
 But the world went on as it was wont, 
 
 And not a ship sailed by. 
 
 He was not missed among his kind, — 
 
 Man had forgot his name ; 
 But unto Him who cares for all, 
 AVho sees the little sparrow fall, 
 His lonely misery came. 
 
 God saw him ; saw his broken heart, 
 
 His cheerless solitude, 
 Saw how his human pride was gone, 
 
 His human will subdued. 
 
 Saw him and loved him. Broken heart, 
 Look up ! the Father's voice 
 
 Calleth thee from thy depths of woe, 
 And biddeth thee rejoice !
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 103 
 
 — Now Marien from the trading town 
 
 Had voyaged ; sent of Heaven 
 She knew not whither ; and the ship, 
 
 Which with long storm had striven, 
 At length npon a glorious isle 
 
 Amid the seas was driven ; 
 
 Where dwelt a gentle race at rest 
 
 Amid their flowery wilds, 
 Unknown to all the world, with hearts 
 
 As simple as a child's. 
 
 With them abode sweet Marien ; 
 
 But now it chanced one day 
 As in a slender carved boat 
 
 Upon the shore she lay, 
 A strong wind came, and filled the sail, 
 
 And bare her thence away. 
 
 She had no fear, true Marien ; — 
 
 That Grod was good, she knew, 
 And even then had sent her forth 
 
 Some work of love to do.
 
 I ii 1 marien's PILGRIM \<.l . 
 
 The prodigal upon his rock 
 
 Was kneeling, and his prayer 
 For confidence in heaven, arose 
 
 Upon the evening air, 
 Just as the little boat approached 
 
 The island bleak and bare. 
 
 The boat ran up a creek, as if 
 'Twere steered by angels good ; 
 
 And ere the evening prayer was done 
 Beside the youth she stood. 
 
 The chiefest joy it bath not word- 
 Its deep excess to say ; 
 
 And as if he had seen a sprite, 
 His spirit died away. 
 
 Then with clasped hands, and broken speech, 
 And tears that ceaseless flowed ; 
 
 He poured forth from his full heart 
 A fervent praise of God.
 
 put Efoclk 
 
 " But let us hence," said Marien ; 
 And with the earliest morn, 
 Within the slender carved boat. 
 They left that isle forlorn. 
 
 A light breeze from the desert shore 
 
 Over the waters blew, 
 And the little boat sailed on before, 
 
 Till the isle was out of view.
 
 10G MAEIEN's PILGRIM am:. 
 
 As friends long parted, me1 once more, 
 They sat ; and of times gone, 
 
 And of the blessed dead conversed, 
 As the slender boat sailed on. 
 
 And as they sailed, sweet Marien 
 
 Over the gospel bent, 
 And read of joy that is in heaven 
 
 O'er sinners that rej>ent; 
 
 And of the weary prodigal 
 Returning bowed with shame, 
 
 And the good father hastening fortli 
 To meet him as he came ; 
 
 And how he bade the fairest robe 
 Be brought ; the golden ring ; 
 
 Shoes for the feet ; and music sweet, 
 As if to hail a king. 
 
 " For this, my son," said he, " was dead, 
 And is alive ; is found, 
 Who was long lost ; 'tis meet, therefore, 
 That stintless joy abound !"
 
 MARIEN S PILGRIMAGE. 107 
 
 " Oh, child of woe," said Marien, 
 " Look up, for thou art he ; 
 And round about the Father's throne 
 Many rejoice for thee !" 
 
 " Oh Lord, I bless thee," said the youth, 
 " That of thy mercy great, 
 Thou hast vouchsafed to rescue me 
 
 From my forlorn estate ! 
 And henceforth, to thy work of love 
 
 Myself I dedicate ! 
 
 " The meanest of thy creatures, low 
 I bend before thy throne, 
 And offer my poor self to make 
 Thy loving-kindness known ! 
 
 " Oh Father, give me words of power, 
 The stony hearts to move; 
 Give me prevailing eloquence, 
 To publish forth thy love ! 
 
 " Thy love which wearieth not ; which like 
 Thy sun, on all doth shine !
 
 10S marien's pilgeimage. 
 
 Oh Father, let me worship Thee 
 Through life, hy gladly serving Thee! 
 I love not life ; I ask not wealth ; 
 My heart and soul, my youth and health, 
 My life, oh Lord, are thine !" 
 
 So spake the youth ; hut now the boat 
 
 The glorious island neared, 
 Which, like a cloudland realm of bliss, 
 
 Above the sea appeared. 
 
 Skyward rose sunny peaks, pale-hued, 
 
 As if of opal glow: 
 And crested palms, broad-leaved and tall, 
 
 In valleys grew below. 
 
 A lovely land of flowers, as fair 
 
 As Paradise, ere sin 
 And sorrow, that corrupting pair, 
 
 With death had entered in. 
 A lovely land! — "And even now," 
 
 Cried Marien, "see they come, 
 Children of love, my brother, now, 
 
 To bid thee welcome home !
 
 MAR1EN S PILGRIMAGE. 109 
 
 " For these, God kept thee in the wild, 
 From sinful men apart ; 
 For these, his people, through distress 
 Made pure thy trusting heart ! 
 
 : Thy work is here ! Go forth, mid these 
 Meek children of the sun, 
 Oh servant of the Lord, and tell 
 What He for thee hath done !" 
 
 Down to the shore the thousands came, 
 
 A joyous, peaceful host, 
 To welcome Marien back, whom they 
 
 Had sorrowed for as lost. 
 
 " And welcome to thee, little child !" 
 They sang forth sweet and clear ; 
 
 ' And welcome to the stranger poor, 
 Who cometh with thee here !" 
 
 And then they brought him silken cloth, 
 
 Since he was meanly drest; 
 And juicy, mellow fruits to eat, 
 And perfumed waters for his feet, 
 
 And mats whereon to rest.
 
 110 mwukn's pilgrimage. 
 
 And ever as they served him, 
 They sang forth sweet and low, 
 " Would this repose might solace thee, 
 These apples cure thy woe !" 
 
 And though the twain knew not their speech, 
 
 Yet well they understood 
 The looks of love that welcomed them, 
 
 Their actions kind and good. 
 
 AVith them for many a year abode 
 The youth, and learned their tongue ; 
 
 And with the sound of christian praise 
 The hills and valleys rung. 
 
 Oh beautiful, beyond all lands 
 
 That lay beneath the moon, 
 Was that fair isle of christian love 
 
 Of christian virtues boon. 
 
 A joyful people there they dwelt, 
 
 Unsuffering from their birth : 
 Of simplest life ; benignly wise ; 
 
 As angels on the earth.
 
 marien's pilgrimage. Ill 
 
 And with them dwelt the holy youth, 
 Their chief, their priest, their friend, 
 
 Beloved and loving, for their sakes 
 Willing himself to spend. 
 
 Like to some ancient church of Christ, 
 
 From worldly taint kept free, 
 Lay this delicious isle of love 
 
 Amid its summer sea. 
 
 But now the work he had to do 
 
 Was done; and ere his day 
 Approached its noon, his strength, his life, 
 
 Was wearing fast away. 
 
 They saw his cheek grow thin and pale; 
 
 His loving eye grow dim; 
 And with surpassing tenderness 
 
 They sorrowed over him. 
 
 Old men, and youths, and women meek, 
 And children wild and young, 
 
 Followed his steps with watchful care, 
 And weeping round him hung.
 
 112 marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 Jn flowery thickets of the hills 
 Sad mourners knelt in prayer, 
 
 That God this servant so revered, 
 This friend beloved would spare. 
 
 And round about his feet they sat, 
 
 Observant, meek, and still, 
 To gather up his latest words, 
 
 To do his slightest will. 
 
 Now all this while good Marien 
 Had wandered far and wide, 
 
 Through divers realms, for many a year, 
 The hand of heaven her guide. 
 
 o 
 
 And now unto the glorious isle 
 She came ; but on the shore 
 
 She saw no wondering company, 
 As she had seen before. 
 
 'Twas Sabbath eve, and o'er the isle 
 
 A solemn stillness lay ; 
 A stillness, how unlike the calm 
 
 Of many a Sabbath day !
 
 marien's pilgrimage. 113 
 
 A hush, as of suspended breath, 
 
 Ere some great grief began ; 
 For the mournful people silently 
 
 Stood round the dying man. 
 
 Through the still vales went Marien, 
 
 And came at length to where, 
 Mid flowering trees, knelt many a one 
 
 In agony of prayer. 
 
 Onward she went, not many steps, 
 
 With heart of mournful ruth, 
 When, like a dying angel laid, 
 
 She saw the holy youth. 
 
 With closed eyes and pallid lips 
 
 He lay, as one whose life 
 Meeteth with death, yet waiteth still 
 
 The last conflicting strife. 
 
 Beside him knelt she on the turf, 
 
 And spoke in accents low, 
 Words of strong love, which like new life 
 
 Seemed through the frame to go.
 
 ] 1 !• marien's pilgrimage. 
 
 He raised himself, and blessing God, 
 That He of him had care, 
 
 And now in his dark trial-hour, 
 Had sent his angel there ; 
 
 With low-toned voice, more musical 
 Than softest lute could make, 
 
 Looking upon his weeping friends 
 With fervent love he spake. 
 
 " Oh friends, beloved friends ! weep not, 
 Nor be oppressed with woe; 
 'Tis of His will, who doeth right, 
 That I am called to go ! 
 
 " Fain would I tarry, but the cry 
 
 Hath sounded in mine ear, 
 ' Haste to depart, the Lord hath need 
 Of thee no longer here !' 
 
 tr> 
 
 " Even like the Master whom I serve, 
 I pray ye not to grieve ; 
 But as ye have believed in me, 
 Also in Him believe !
 
 mamen's pilgrimage. 115 
 
 " I go, but leave you not forlorn, 
 As sheep without a guide ; — 
 For Christ, the unfailing Comforter, 
 Shall still with you abide ! 
 
 " Oh weep not, friends ; a better home 
 
 Awaits me, and I go, 
 But to that home which is prepared 
 
 For ye who love me so ! 
 Farewell, farewell ! Unto my God, 
 
 And unto yours, I go !" 
 
 The Sabbath sun went down amid 
 
 A golden, cloudless sky ; 
 And the freed spirit, cleansed from sin, 
 
 Arose to God on high. 
 
 s 
 
 Beneath the trees where he had died, 
 They buried him, and there 
 
 Enwove the flowery boughs to form 
 A quiet house of prayer. 
 
 Long time with them dwelt Marien, 
 Until she was sent forth, 
 
 i 2
 
 16 MAKIF.n's pilgrimage. 
 
 At the Lord's bidding, to perform 
 New service on the earth. 
 
 (rood speed to thee, thou blessed child, 
 May angels guide thy hark, 
 
 Mid slumbrous calm, mid tempests wild, 
 And o'er the waters dark ! 
 
 Grood speed to thee, thou blessed child, 
 
 The angel of the poor — 
 And win from sorrow and from sin 
 
 The world from shore to shore !
 
 OLD CHRISTMAS. 
 
 k OW he who knows old Christmas, 
 He knows a carle of worth ; 
 "^V^Tor he is as good a fellow 
 y As any upon the earth ! 
 
 He comes warm cloaked and coated, 
 And buttoned up to the chin, 
 
 And soon as he comes a-nigh the door, 
 We open and let him in. 
 
 We know that he will not fail us, 
 So we sweep the hearth up clean ; 
 
 We set him the old armed chair, 
 And a cushion whereon to lean.
 
 I I B OLD CHEISTMA8. 
 
 And with sprigs of holly and ivy 
 AVe make the house look gay, 
 
 Just out of an old regard to him, — 
 For it was his ancient way. 
 
 We broach the strong ale barrel, 
 And bring out wine and meat ; 
 
 And thus have all things ready, 
 Our dear old friend to greet. 
 
 And soon as the time wears round, 
 The good old carle we see, 
 
 Coming a-near ; — for a creditor 
 Less punctual is than he ! 
 
 He comes with a cordial voice 
 That does one good to hear ; 
 
 He shakes one heartily by the hand, 
 As he hath done many a year. 
 
 And after the little children 
 He asks in a cheerful tone, 
 
 Jack, Kate, and little Annie, — 
 He remembers them every one !
 
 OLD CHRISTMAS. 1 1 ( J 
 
 What a fine old fellow he is ! 
 
 With his faculties all as clear, 
 And his heart as warm and light 
 
 As a man's in his fortieth year ! 
 
 What a fine old fellow, in troth ! 
 
 Not one of your griping elves, 
 Who, with plenty of money to spare, 
 
 Think only about themselves ! 
 
 Not he ! for he loveth the children ; 
 
 And holiday begs for all ; 
 And comes with his pockets full of gifts, 
 
 For the great ones and the small ! 
 
 With a present for every servant ; — 
 For in giving he doth not tire ; — 
 
 From the red-faced, jovial butler, 
 To the girl by the kitchen-fire. 
 
 And he tells us witty old stories ; 
 
 And singeth with might and main ; 
 And we talk of the old man's visit 
 
 Till the day that he comes again!
 
 L2Q OLD CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Oh, lie is a kind, old follow; 
 
 For though that beef be dear, 
 He giveth the parish paupers 
 
 A good dinner once a year ! 
 
 And all the workhouse children 
 He sets them down in a row, 
 
 And giveth them rare plum-pudding, 
 And two-pence a-piece also. 
 
 Oh, could you have seen those paupers, 
 Have heard those children young, 
 
 You would wish with them that Christmas 
 Came often and tarried long I 
 
 He must be a rich old fellow, — 
 What money he gives away ! 
 
 There is not a lord in England 
 Could equal him any day ! 
 
 Grood luck unto old Christmas, 
 
 And long life, let us sing, 
 For he doth more good unto the poor 
 
 Than many a crowned king !
 
 THE TWELFTH HOUR. 
 
 My friends, the spirit is at peace ; 
 
 Oh do not trouble me with tears : 
 Petition rather my release, 
 
 Nor covet for me length of years, 
 "Which are but weariness and woe ; 
 Eesign me, friends, before I go ! 
 
 I know how strong are human ties ; 
 
 I know how strong is human fear; 
 But visions open to mine eyes, 
 
 And words of power are in mine ear ; 
 My friends, my friends, can ye not see, 
 Not hear what voices speak to me ? 
 
 " Thou human soul," they seem to say, 
 " We are commissioned from above, 
 Through the dark portal to convey 
 
 Thee to the paradise of love ; 
 Thou need'st not shrink, thou need'st not fear 
 We, thy sure help, are gathered near !
 
 I 22 THE tutu i ii HOI ::. 
 
 " Thy weakness on our Btrength confide ; 
 
 Tliy doubt upon our stedfast trust; 
 And rise up, pure and glorified, 
 
 From thine infirm and sinful dust. 
 Rise up, rise up ! the eternal day 
 ISegins to dawn — why wilt thou Btay? 
 
 " Look forth — the day begins to dawn ; 
 
 The future openeth to thy view ; 
 The veil of mystery is undrawn ; 
 
 The old things are becoming new ; 
 The night of time is passing by : 
 Poor trembler, do not fear to die ! 
 
 " Come, come! the gates of pearl unfold; 
 
 The eternal glory shines on thee ! 
 Body, relax thy lingering hold, 
 
 And set the struggling spirit free ! ' 
 Tis done, 'tis done ! — before my sight 
 ( )pens the awful infinite : 
 I see, I hear, I live anew ! 
 Oh friends, dear friends, — adieu, adieu !
 
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 :-s^* 
 
 THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER, 
 
 — •- 
 
 " Oh brother," said fair Annie, 
 
 To the blind boy at her side ; 
 " Would thou could'st see the sunshine lie 
 On hill and valley, and the sky 
 Hung like a glorious canopy , 
 
 O'er all things far and wide !
 
 124 THE BLIND I50Y AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 " Would thou could'st see the waters 
 
 In many a distant glen ; 
 The mountain flocks that graze around ; 
 Nay, even this patch of stony ground, 
 These crags, with silver lichen crowned, 
 
 I would that thou could'st ken ! 
 
 " Would thou could'st see my face, brother, 
 
 As well as I see thine ; 
 For always what I cannot see 
 It is but half a joy to me. 
 Brother, I often weep for thee, 
 
 Yet thou dost ne'er repine ! " 
 
 'And why should I repine, Annie?' 1 
 
 Said the blind bov with a smile ; 
 " I ken the blue sky and the grey ; 
 The sunny and the misty day ; 
 The moorland valley stretched away 
 
 For many and many a mile ! 
 
 " I ken the night and day, Annie, 
 For all ye may believe;
 
 THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER. 125 
 
 And often in my spirit lies 
 A clear light as of mid-day sides ; 
 And splendours on my vision rise, 
 Like gorgeous hues of eve. 
 
 " I sit upon the stone, Annie, 
 
 Beside our cottage door, 
 And people say, 'that boy is blind,' 
 And pity me, although I find 
 A world of beauty in my mind, 
 
 A never-ceasing store. 
 
 " E hear you talk of mountains, 
 
 The beautiful, the grand ; 
 Of splintered peaks so grey and tall; 
 Of lake, and glen, and waterfall ; 
 Of flowers and trees ; — I ken them all ; — 
 
 Their difference understand. 
 
 " The harebell and the go wan 
 
 Are not alike to me, 
 Are different as the herd and flock, 
 The blasted pine-tree of the rock, 
 The waving birch, the broad, green oak, 
 
 The river, and the sea.
 
 \2C) THE BLIND NOY AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 *■ And oh, the heavenly music, 
 
 That as I sit alone, 
 Comes to mine inward sense as clear 
 As if the angel-voices were 
 Singing to harp and dulcimer 
 
 Before the mighty Throne ! 
 
 " It is not as of outward sound, 
 Of breeze, or singing bird ; 
 
 But wondrous melody refined ; 
 
 A gift of God unto the blind; 
 
 An inward harmony of mind, 
 By inward senses heard ! 
 
 " And all the old-world stories 
 
 That neighbours tell o' nights ; 
 Of fairies on the fairy mound, 
 Of brownies dwelling under ground, 
 Of elves careering round and round, 
 Of fays and water- sprites ; 
 
 All this to me is pleasantness, — ■ 
 Is all a merry show ;
 
 THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER. 127 
 
 I see the antic people play, — 
 Brownie and kelpie, elf and fay, 
 In a sweet country far away, 
 Yet where I seem to go. 
 
 " But better far than this, Annie, 
 
 Is when thou read'st to me 
 Of the dear Saviour meek and kind, 
 And how he healed the lame and blind, 
 Am I not healed? — for in my mind 
 
 His blessed form I see ! 
 
 " Oh, love is not of sight, Annie, 
 
 Is not of outward things ; 
 For, in my inmost soul I know, 
 His pity for all mortal woe ; 
 His words of love, spoke long ago, 
 
 Unseal its deepest springs ! 
 
 ' Then do not mourn for me, Annie, 
 
 Because that I am blind ; — 
 The beauty of all outward sight; 
 The wondrous shows of day and night ; 
 All love, all faith, and all delight, 
 
 Are strong in heart and mind !"
 
 THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIOm* 
 
 AViiere shall I meet thee, 
 Thou beautiful one ? 
 
 Where shall I find thee, 
 For aye who art gone ? 
 
 AVhat is the shape 
 
 To thy clear spirit given ? 
 Where is thy home 
 
 In the infinite heaven ? 
 
 I see thee, hut still 
 
 As thou wert upon earth, 
 In thy bodied delight, 
 
 In thy wonder and mirth ! 
 
 But now thou art one 
 Of the glorified band, 
 
 Who have touched the shore 
 Of the far spirit -land !
 
 the spirit's questionings. 129 
 
 And thy shape is fair, 
 
 And thy locks are bright, 
 In the living stream 
 
 Of the quenchless light. 
 
 And thy spirit's thought 
 
 It is pure, and free 
 From darkness and doubt 
 
 And from mystery ! 
 
 And thine ears have drunk 
 
 The awful tone 
 Of the First and Last, 
 
 Of the Ancient One ! 
 
 And the dwellers old 
 
 Thy steps have met, 
 Where the lost is found, 
 
 And the past is yet. 
 
 Where shall I find thee, 
 
 For aye who art gone ? 
 Where shall I meet thee, 
 
 Thou beautiful one ? 
 
 K
 
 THE TOOR CHILD'S IIYMX. 
 
 Wb arc poor and lowly born ; 
 
 With the poor we bide; 
 Labour is our heritage, 
 
 Care and want beside. 
 What of this? our blessed Lord 
 
 "Was of lowly birth, 
 And poor, toiling fishermen 
 
 Were his friends on earth ! 
 
 We are ignorant and young ; 
 
 Simple children all ; 
 Gifted with but humble powers, 
 
 And of learning small. 
 What of this? our blessed Lord 
 
 Loved such as we ; — 
 How he blessed the little ones 
 
 Sitting on his knee !
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Hoar with the lapse of ages seemed 
 The silent land toward which I drew ; 
 
 And yet within myself I deemed 
 The dwellers in that land were few. 
 
 A strong conviction seemed to rest 
 Upon my heart that I was then 
 
 In the sole portion of the earth, 
 
 Which since creation's perfect birth, 
 Had held the sons of men; 
 
 And I was on a marvelling quest 
 
 Of that small colony of the blest. 
 
 How lone, how silent ! not a sound 
 In earth or air, from wind or flood ; 
 
 But o'er the bare and barren ground 
 Brooded an endless solitude. 
 
 V 9
 
 L82 A DREAM. 
 
 It was an awful thing to tread 
 
 O'er grey and parched and mighty plains, 
 Where never living thing was seen, 
 Where the live heart had never been: 
 
 The blood chilled in my veins, — 
 Yet still I felt in spirit led 
 Across that wilderness of dread. 
 
 But lo ! that deadness of the world, 
 
 Which seemed of an eternal power, 
 Like a light vapour was unfurled, 
 
 And I walked over fern and flower ; 
 Hills, robed in light celestial blue, 
 
 Bounded that amplitude of plain ; 
 And round me there were lofty trees, 
 Vet linivi soundless to the breeze; 
 
 And not a wild birds strain, 
 Xor cry of beast, could still undo 
 The spell which silence o'er me threw. 
 
 But man was there. Not far aside 
 One I beheld who strongly toiled ; 
 
 He seemed a youth of solemn pride, 
 Of noble form, but dimmed and soiled
 
 A DREAM. 133 
 
 With rural labour and with care, 
 
 And he clove wood for sacrifice. 
 I listened for his sounding stroke, 
 There was no sound ; and now the smoke 
 
 Did from the pile arise • 
 And he gazed on it with an air 
 Less marked by pleasure than despair. 
 
 But then a lovelier vision sprung 
 
 Before me ; and between the tall 
 And shadowy trees, a low cloud hung, 
 
 So low, it scarcely hung at all ; 
 'Twas like no cloud which sails the sky ; 
 
 Around it all was clearly seen ; 
 It mixed not with the ambient air ; 
 Rolled on itself compact and fair, 
 
 It rested on the scene, 
 More still and motionless than lie 
 The clouds of summer in the sky. 
 
 Beside it stood a hoary seer, 
 
 And through my heart a whisper ran, 
 God, or his angel shrouded here, 
 
 Holds converse with this holy man."
 
 13-1 A DREAM, 
 
 Dark was that cloudy dwelling-place ; 
 
 No glory on it seemed to dwell ; 
 Yet still on every thing around, 
 On tree, on shrub, and heathy ground, 
 
 A streaming radiance fell ; 
 And on that patriarch's awful face 
 Glowed with intense, unearthly grace. 
 
 Propped on his staff, in peace he stood, 
 
 Sandaled, and girdled in his vest, 
 And his full heard in silver flowed 
 
 Far down his pure and quiet breast ; 
 His eye was on the cloud, as one 
 
 "Who listens to momentous things, 
 And seems with reverence to hear, 
 Yet with more confidence than fear, 
 What some great herald brings. 
 
 Put as I gazed, a little boat, 
 
 Swift, without rudder, oars, or sail, 
 
 Down through the ambient air afloat, 
 Bore onward one who seemed to hail 
 
 The patriarch, — and he turned his head ; 
 He turned and saw a smiling boy,
 
 A DREAM. 135 
 
 Smiling in beauty and in youth, 
 With eyes in which eternal truth 
 
 Laj r with eternal joy. 
 He touched that old man's snowy head, 
 And boat, youth, cloud, and patriarch fled ! 
 
 A multitude of dreams have passed 
 
 Since this, and perished as they came ; 
 
 But in my mind imprinted, fast 
 
 This lives, and still remains the same. 
 
 The beauty of that gliding car ; 
 
 The mystery of the cloud and sage ; 
 
 Those plains in arid drought so stern ; 
 
 That solemn hush, that seemed etern; — 
 In memory's living page, 
 
 Still stand in light, more real far 
 
 Than thousands of our day-dreams are!
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE, 
 
 AN OLD SEAMAN S STORT 
 
 lari Jfirst. 
 
 I'll tell ye, if ye hearken now, 
 A thing that chanced to me — 
 
 It must he fifty years agone — 
 Upon the southern sea.
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 137 
 
 First-mate was I of the Nancy, 
 
 A tight ship and a sound ; 
 We had made a prosperous voyage, 
 
 And then were homeward bound. 
 
 We were sailing on the Tropic seas, 
 
 Before the trade-wind's power ; 
 Day after day, without delay, 
 
 Full thirteen knots an hour. 
 
 The sea was as a glassy lake, 
 
 By a steady gale impressed ; 
 There was nought for any man to do 
 
 But just what liked him best. 
 
 And yet the calm was wearisome ; 
 
 The dull days idly sped; 
 And sometimes on a flute I played, 
 
 Or else a book I read. 
 
 And dallying thus one afternoon, 
 
 I stood upon the deck ; 
 When far off, to the leeward, 
 
 I saw a faintish speck.
 
 13^ THE BOY OF THE BOUTHBRH ISLE. 
 
 Whether 'twas rock, or fish, or cloud, 
 At first I did not know ; 
 
 So I called unto a seaman, 
 That he might look also. 
 
 And as it neared, I saw for sure 
 That it must be a boat ; 
 
 But my fellow swore it was not so, 
 But a large bamboo afloat. 
 
 We called a third unto us then, 
 That he the sight might see ; 
 
 Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, 
 But no two could agree. 
 
 "Nay, 'tis a little boat," I said, 
 " And it roweth with an oar I" 
 But none of them could see it so, 
 All differing as before. 
 
 "It cometh on; I see it plain; 
 
 It is a boat!" I cried, 
 "A little boat o'erlaid with pearl, 
 
 And a little child to guide I"
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 139 
 
 And sure enough, a boat it was, 
 
 And worked with an oar ; 
 But such a boat as 'twas, no man 
 
 Had ever seen before. 
 
 Within it sate a little child, 
 
 The fairest e'er was seen ; 
 His robes were like the amethyst, 
 
 His mantle of sea-green. 
 
 No covering wore he on his head, 
 
 And the hair that on it grew 
 Showered down in thick and wavy locks 
 
 Of the sunniest golden hue. 
 
 The rudest man on board our ship 
 
 Blest God that sight to see ; 
 For me I could do nought but weep, 
 
 Such power had it on me. 
 
 There sat he in his pretty boat 
 
 Like an angel from the sky, 
 Regarding us in our great ship, 
 
 With wonder in his eye.
 
 I 10 THE BOY OF THE SOUTH F.i:\ [B] 
 
 Tlio little oar slid From Lis hand ; 
 
 His sweet lips were apart ; 
 Within my soul I felt Lis joy ; 
 
 His wonder in my heart. 
 
 And as we tokened him to come, 
 
 His little boat he neared, 
 And smiled at all our friendly words, 
 
 Nor seemed the least afeared. 
 
 " Come hither a-board !" the captain said ; 
 And without fear of ill, 
 He sprang into the lordly ship, 
 With frank and free good will. 
 
 He was no son of the merman ; 
 
 No syren full of guile ; 
 But a creature like the cherubim, 
 
 From some unknown-of isle. 
 
 And strange to tell, his pleasant speech 
 
 Was English, every word ; 
 And yet such English, sweet and pure, 
 
 As his I never heard.
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 141 
 
 There were three, he said, who dwelt with him, 
 
 Within a tamarind-grove ; 
 His parents and his sister young, — 
 
 A family of love. 
 
 His father, he said, had made his boat 
 From out a large sea-shell ; 
 " And what a wondrous tale," said he, 
 " I shall this evening tell !" 
 
 His robes, he said, his mother had wove 
 
 From roots of an Indian-tree ; 
 And he laughed at the clothes the seamen wore, 
 
 With the merriest mockery. 
 
 When the little child had stayed with us, 
 
 May-be an hour or so, 
 He smiled farewell to all on board, 
 
 And said that he would go. 
 
 "For I must be back again," said he, 
 " For me they all will wait ; 
 I must be back again," quoth he, 
 " Or ever the day be late !"
 
 1 12 vbi nov or the bouthees isle. 
 
 "He shall not go!" the captain said; 
 "Haul up his boat and oar! 
 The pretty boy shall sail with us 
 To the famous English shore ! 
 
 " Thou shalt with me, my pretty boy ; 
 I'll find thee a new mother; — 
 I've children three at home, and thou 
 To them shalt be a brother !" 
 
 " Nay, nay, I shall go back !" lie said ; 
 " For thee I do not know ; — 
 I must be back again," he cried, 
 "Before the sun be low!"' 
 Then sprang unto the vessel's side, 
 And made as he would go. 
 
 The captain was a strong, stern man ; 
 
 None liked him overwell; 
 And to a seaman standing near, 
 Said he, with voice and look austere, 
 "Haul up yon cockle-shell! 
 And you, my boy, content you, 
 
 In this good ship to dwell!"
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 143 
 
 As one who gladly would believe 
 
 Some awful threat a joke, 
 So heard the child, with half a smile, 
 
 The words the captain spoke. 
 
 But when he saw them seize his boat, 
 
 And put his oar away, 
 The smile was gone, and o'er his face 
 
 Quick passed a pale dismay. 
 
 And then a passion seized his frame, 
 
 As if he were possessed; 
 He stamped his little feet in rage, 
 
 And smote upon his breast. 
 
 'Twas a wicked deed as e'er was done — 
 
 I longed to set him free ; 
 And the impotence of his great grief 
 
 Was a grievous sight to me. 
 
 At length, when rage had spent itself, 
 
 His lofty heart gave way, 
 And, falling on his pretty knees, 
 
 At the captain's feet he lay.
 
 Ill THE HOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 
 
 "Oh take me bark again!" he cried, 
 
 "Lei me not tarry here, 
 And I'll give tliee sea-apples, 
 And honey rich and clear; 
 
 "And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones 
 From dee]> s.a-caves below ; 
 And red tree-gold and coral-tree, 
 If thou wilt let me go ! 
 
 " Or if I must abide with thee, — 
 In thy great ship to dwell, 
 Let me but just go back again, 
 To bid them all farewell !" 
 
 And at the word " farewell" he wept, 
 As if his heart would break; 
 
 The very memory of his tears 
 Sore sad my heart doth make. 
 
 The captain's self was almost moved 
 
 To hear his woful cry ; 
 And there was not within the ship 
 
 One man whose eyes were dry.
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 145 
 
 When the captain saw the seamen's grief, 
 
 An angry man was he, 
 And shut his heart against the child, 
 
 For our great sympathy. 
 
 Down from the deck he took him 
 
 To his cabin all alone ; 
 "We saw him not for many a day, 
 
 But only heard his moan. 
 
 Hart Smnfc 
 
 It was a wicked deed, and heaven 
 
 All wickedness doth hate ; 
 And vengeance on the oppressor, 
 
 It cometh soon or late, — 
 
 As you will see. There something was, 
 
 Even from the very night 
 Whereon the captain stole the child, 
 
 On board that was not right.
 
 1 10 THE BOY 01 THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 
 
 From out the cabin evermore, 
 Where they were all alone, 
 
 We heard, oh piteous sounds to hear, 
 A low and quiet moan ; 
 
 And now and then cries sad enough 
 To move a heart of stone. 
 
 The captain had a conscious look, 
 Like one who doeth wrong, 
 
 And yet who striveth all the time 
 Against a conscience strong. 
 
 The seamen did not work at all 
 With a good will or a free ; 
 
 And the ship, as she were sullen too, 
 Went slowly over the sea. 
 
 'Twas then the captain from below 
 Sent down in haste for me. 
 
 I found him lying on his bed, 
 Oppressed with fever-pain; 
 
 And by his death-struck face, I saw 
 That he would not rise again, — 
 
 That he, so lately hale and strong, 
 Would never rise again.
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 147 
 
 "I have done wickedly," said lie, 
 " And Christ doth me condemn ; — 
 I have children three on land," groaned he, 
 " And woe will come to them ! 
 
 " I have been weighed, and wanting found ■ 
 I've done an evil deed ! — 
 I pray thee, mate, 'tis not too late, 
 Take back this child with speed ! 
 
 " I have children three," again groaned he, 
 " And I pray that this be done ; — 
 Thou wilt have order of the ship 
 When I am dead and gone :- — 
 1 pray thee do the thing I ask, 
 That mercy may be won !" 
 
 I vowed to do the thing he asked, 
 
 Upon the Testament ; 
 And, true enough, that very day 
 
 To his account he went. 
 
 I took the little child away, 
 And set him on my knee, 
 
 l 2
 
 1 1-8 THE BOY OF Till: SOUTHERN ISLE. 
 
 In the free fresh air upon the deck, 
 But he spoke no word to me. 
 
 I feared at first that all his grief 
 
 Had robbed him of his speech, 
 And that I ne'er, by word or lock. 
 His sunken soul could reach. 
 
 At length he woke from that dead woe, 
 Like one that long hath slept, 
 
 And cast his arms about my neck, 
 And long and freely wept. 
 
 I clasped him close unto my breast, 
 
 Yet knew not what to say, 
 To wile from him the misery 
 
 That on his spirit lay. 
 
 At length I did bethink me 
 
 01" Jesus Christ : and spake 
 To that poor lamb of all the woe 
 
 He suffered for our sake.
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 149 
 
 "For me and thee, dear child," I said, 
 " He suffered, and be sure 
 He will not lay a pang on thee 
 Without he give the cure !" 
 
 Like as the heavy clouds of night 
 
 Pass from the coming day, 
 So cleared the sullen weight of woe 
 
 From his dear soul away. 
 
 Oh happy hours of converse sweet ; — 
 
 The Christian's hope he knew, 
 And with an eager heart he gained 
 
 That knowledge sweet and new. 
 
 And ever by my side he kept, 
 
 Loving, and meek, and still : 
 But never more to him returned 
 
 His bold and wayward will: — 
 He had been tried and purified 
 
 From every taint of ill.
 
 $iri U\A 
 
 The eve whereon the captain died 
 
 I turned the ship about, 
 And said unto the seamen good, 
 "We'll find the island out." 
 
 So hack unto the place we came, 
 Where we the child had found; 
 
 And two full days with anxious watch, 
 We sailed it all around. 
 
 And on the third, at break of day, 
 
 A far-off peak was seen ; 
 And then the low-lands rose to view, 
 
 All woody, rich, and green. 
 
 Down on his knees the child he fell, 
 When the mountains came in view, 
 
 And tears ran streaming from his eyes,- 
 For his own isle he knew.
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 151 
 
 And, with a wildly-piercing tone, 
 
 He cried, " Oh, mother dear, 
 Weep not, — I come, my mother !" 
 
 Long, long ere she could hear. 
 
 And soon we saw a mountain-top 
 
 Whereon a beacon burned; 
 Then as the good ship neared the land, 
 
 An answer was returned. 
 
 " Oh, give to me my boat !" he cried, 
 " And give to me mine oar !" 
 Just then we saw another boat 
 Pushed from the island-shore. 
 
 A carved boat of sandal-wood, 
 
 Its sail a silken mat, 
 All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes, 
 
 And three within her sat. 
 
 * 
 
 Down from the ship into the sea 
 
 The little boy he sprung; 
 And the mother gave a scream of joy 
 
 With which the island rung,
 
 L 52 THE BOY OK THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 
 
 Like some sea-creature beautiful 
 
 He swam the ocean-tide, 
 And ere we wondered at his skill 
 
 He clomb the shallop's side. 
 
 Next moment in his mother's arms 
 
 He lay, sweet embrace ! 
 Looking from her dear bosom up 
 
 Into her loving face. 
 
 The happiest and the sweetest sight 
 That e'er mine eyes will see, 
 
 Was the coming back of this poor child 
 Unto his family ! 
 
 > — Xow wot ye of his parentage ? 
 
 Sometime I'll tell you it : 
 Of meaner matter many a time 
 
 Has many a book been writ. 
 
 'Twould make a pleasant history 
 Of joy scarce touched by woe, 
 
 Of innocence and love ; but now 
 This only must you know.
 
 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 153 
 
 His mother was of English birth, 
 
 Well-born, and young, and fair ; 
 In the wreck of an East-Indiaman 
 
 She had been saved there. 
 
 His father was the island's chief, 
 
 Goodly as man can be ; 
 Adam, methinks, in Paradise 
 
 Was such a one as he. 
 
 'Tis not for my weak speech to tell 
 
 The joy so sweet and good, 
 Of these kind, simple islanders, 
 
 Nor all their gratitude. 
 
 Wbate'er the island held they gave ; 
 
 Delicious fruits and wines, 
 Rich-tinted shells from out the sea, 
 
 And ore from out their mines. 
 
 But I might not stay ; and that same day 
 
 Again we turned about, 
 And, with the wind that changed then 
 
 Went from the harbour out.
 
 154 THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 
 
 — 'Tis joy to do an upright deed ; 
 
 'Tis joy to do a kind ; 
 And the best reward of virtuous deeds 
 
 Is the peace of one's own mind. 
 
 But a blessing 1 great went with the ship, 
 And with the freight she bore ; 
 
 The pearl-shells turned to great account, 
 So did the island's ore ; — 
 
 But I someway lost my reckoning, 
 Nor found the island more. 
 
 And how the child became a man, 
 
 Or what to him befel, 
 As I never trod the island more, 
 
 Is not for me to tell.
 
 EASTEE HYMNS. 
 
 Pput Jfirsi. 
 
 THE TWO MARYS. 
 
 Oh dark day of sorrow, 
 Amazement and pain ; 
 When the promise was blighted, 
 The given was ta'en ! 
 
 When the master no longer 
 A refuge should prove ; 
 And evil was stronger 
 Than mercy and love ! 
 
 Oh dark day of sorrow, 
 Abasement and dread, 
 When the Master beloved 
 Was one with the dead !
 
 1 56 I ASTER HYMNS. 
 
 We sate in our anguish 
 
 Afar off to sec, 
 
 For we surely believed not 
 
 This sorrow could be ! 
 
 But the trust of our spirits 
 Was all overthrown ; 
 And we wept, in our anguish, 
 Astonished, alone ! 
 
 At even they laid him 
 With aloes and myrrh, 
 In fine linen wound, in 
 A new sepulchre. 
 
 • 
 
 There, there will we seek him 
 Will wash him with care ; 
 Anoint him with spices : 
 And mourn for him there. 
 
 Oh strangest of sorrow ! 
 Oh vision of fear ! 
 New grief is around us, — 
 The Lord is not here !
 
 fjnnut Swift. 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Women, why shrink ye 
 With wonder and dread ? — 
 Seek not the living 
 Where slumbers the dead ! 
 
 Weep not, nor tremble ; 
 And be not dismayed ; 
 The Lord hath arisen ! 
 See where he was laid ! 
 
 The grave-clothes, behold them ; 
 The spices ; the bier ; 
 The napkin that bound him ; — 
 But he is not here ! 
 
 Death could not hold him ; 
 The grave is a prison 
 That keeps not the living ; 
 The Christ has arisen !
 
 31] put Cbirb. 
 
 THE LORD JESUS. 
 
 Why are ye troubled? 
 "Why weep ye and grieve ? 
 "What the prophets have written 
 Why slowly believe ? 
 
 'Tis I, be not doubtful ! 
 "Why ponder ye so ? 
 Behold in my body 
 The marks of my woe ! 
 
 The willing hath suffered; 
 The chosen been slain ; 
 The end is accomplished ! 
 Behold me again ! 
 
 Death has been conquered — 
 The grave lias been riven — 
 For sin a remission 
 Hath freely been given !
 
 EASTER HYMNS. 159 
 
 Fearless in spirit, 
 Yet meek as the dove, 
 Go preach to the nations 
 This gospel of love. 
 
 For the might of the mighty 
 Shall o'er yon be cast ; 
 And I will be with you, 
 My friends, to the last ! 
 
 I go to the Father, 
 But I will prepare 
 Your mansions of glory, 
 And welcome you there. 
 
 There life never-ending ; 
 There bliss that endures ; 
 There love never-changing, 
 My friends, shall be yours ! 
 
 But the hour is accomplished ! 
 My children, we sever — 
 But be ye not troubled, 
 I am with you for ever !
 
 Ipn Jfourtb. 
 
 THE ELEVEN. 
 
 The Lord is ascending ! — 
 Bich welcomes to give him 
 See, angels descending ! — 
 The heavens receive him ! 
 
 See, angels, archangels 
 Bend down to adore ! — 
 The Lord hath ascended, 
 We see him no more ! 
 
 The Master is taken ; 
 The friend hath departed; 
 Yet we are not forsaken, 
 Nor desolate-hearted ! 
 
 The master is taken; 
 The holy, the kind ; 
 But the joy of his presence 
 Bemaineth behind!
 
 EASTER HYMNS. 
 
 161 
 
 Our hearts burned within us 
 To hear but the word 
 Which he spake, ere our spirits 
 Acknowledged the Lord ! 
 
 The Lord hath ascended ! 
 Our hope is secure, 
 "VVe trusted not lightly ; — 
 The promise is sure ! 
 
 The Lord hath ascended; 
 And we, his true-hearted, 
 Go forth with rejoicing, 
 Though he hath departed ! 
 
 ! 
 
 M
 
 CORN-FIELDS. 
 
 In the young merry time of spring, 
 When clover 'gins to burst ; 
 
 "When blue-bells nod within the wood, 
 And sweet May whitens first ; 
 
 "When merle and mavis sing their fill, 
 
 Green is the young corn on the hill. 
 
 But when the merry spring is past, 
 And summer groweth bold, 
 
 And in the garden and the field 
 A thousand flowers unfold ; 
 
 Before a green leaf yet is sere, 
 
 The young corn shoots into the ear. 
 
 But then as day and night succeed, 
 
 And summer weareth on, 
 And in the flowery garden beds 
 
 The red-rose groweth wan, 
 And holly-hock and sunflowers tall 
 O'ertop the mossy garden-wall :
 
 CORN-FIELDS. 163 
 
 When on the breath of autumn breeze, 
 
 From pastures dry and brown, 
 Goes floating", like an idle thought, 
 
 The fair, white thistle-down ; 
 0, then what joy to walk at will, 
 Upon the golden harvest-hill ! 
 
 What joy in dreamy ease to lie 
 
 Amid a field new- shorn, 
 And see all round on sun-lit slopes, 
 
 The piled-up shocks of corn, 
 And send the fancy wandering o'er 
 All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. 
 
 I feel the day ; I see the field ; 
 
 The quivering of the leaves ; 
 And good old Jacob and his house 
 
 Binding the yellow sheaves ; 
 And at this very hour I seem 
 To be with Joseph in his dream. 
 
 I see the fields of Bethlehem, 
 
 And reapers many a one, 
 Bending unto their sickles' stroke, 
 
 And Boaz looking on ; 
 
 m 2
 
 164 f'OUN-FIELDS. 
 
 And Ruth, the Moabitess fair, 
 Among the gleaners stooping there. 
 
 Again, I see a little child, 
 His mother's sole delight ; 
 
 God's living gift of love unto 
 The kind, good Shunamite ; 
 
 To mortal pangs I see him yield, 
 
 And the lad bear him from the field. 
 
 The sun-bathed quiet of the hills ; 
 
 The fields of Galilee, 
 That eighteen hundred years agone 
 
 Were full of corn, I see, 
 And the dear Saviour take his way 
 '"Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath-day. 
 
 O golden fields of bending corn, 
 How beautiful they seem ! — 
 
 The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, 
 To me are like a dream ; 
 
 The sunshine and the very air 
 
 Seem of old time, and take me there !
 
 THE TWO ESTATES. 
 
 The children of the rich man, no carking care 
 
 they know. 
 
 Like lilies in the sunshine, how beautiful thej 
 grow ! 
 
 And well may they he beautiful ; in raiment of 
 
 the best, 
 In velvet, gold, and ermine, their little forms 
 
 are drest. 
 
 With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on 
 
 their head, 
 And golden hair, like angels' locks, over their 
 
 shoulders spread. 
 
 And well may they be beautiful ; they toil not, 
 
 neither spin, 
 Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they aught their 
 
 daily bread to win.
 
 lf)G THE TWO ESTATES. 
 
 The)* cat from gold and silver, all luxuries wealth 
 can buy ; 
 
 They sleep on beds of softest down, in cham- 
 bers rich and high. 
 
 They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round 
 
 about, 
 And servants to attend them if they go in or 
 
 out. 
 
 They have music for the hearing, and pictures 
 
 for the eye, 
 And exquisite and costly things each sense to 
 
 gratify. 
 
 So wonder they are beautiful ! and if they 
 
 chance to die, 
 Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel 
 
 vault they lie. 
 
 With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that 
 
 all mav know, 
 The children of the rich man are mouldering 
 
 below.
 
 THE TWO ESTATES. 167 
 
 The children of the poor man, around the humble 
 
 doors 
 They throng of city alleys and solitary moors. 
 
 In hot and noisy factories they turn the cease- 
 less wheel, 
 
 And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and 
 joyless meal. 
 
 They rise up in the morning, ne'er dreaming 
 
 of delight ; 
 And weary, spent, and heart-sore, they go to 
 
 bed at night. 
 
 They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp 
 
 and gem ; 
 So their clothes keep out the weather they're 
 
 good enough for them. 
 
 Their hands are broad and horny ; they hunger, 
 
 and are cold ; 
 They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they 
 
 are five years old.
 
 1 OS Till". TWO ESTATES. 
 
 — Tho poor man's child must stop aside if the 
 
 rich man's child go b}^ ; 
 And scarcely aught may minister to his little 
 
 vanity. 
 
 And of what could he be vain ? — his most 
 
 beautiful array 
 Is what the rich man's children have worn and 
 
 cast away. 
 
 The finely spun, the many-hued, the new, are 
 
 not for him, 
 He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in 
 
 garments soiled and dim. 
 
 O" 
 
 He sees the children of the rich in chariots gay 
 
 go by, 
 And " what a heavenly life is theirs," he sayeth 
 
 with a sigrh. 
 
 •& j 
 
 Then straightway to his work he goeth, for 
 
 feeble though he be, 
 His daily toil must still be done to help tliQ 
 
 family.
 
 THE TWO ESTATES. 
 
 169 
 
 Thus live the poor man's children ; and if they 
 
 chance to die, 
 In plain, uncostly coffins, 'mong common graves 
 
 they lie ; 
 
 Nor monument nor head-stone their humble 
 
 names declare : — 
 But thou, Grod, wilt not forget the poor 
 
 man's children there ! 
 
 J^MSSW^a^jgT *•
 
 LIFE'S MATINS. 
 
 At that sweet hour of even, 
 When nightingales awake, 
 
 Low-bending o'er her first-born son, 
 An anxious mother spake. 
 
 " Thou child of prayer and blessing, 
 Would that my soul could know, 
 What the unending future holds 
 For thee of joy or woe. 
 
 " Thy life, will it be gladness, 
 A sunny path of flowers ; — 
 Or strift, with sorrow dark as death, 
 Through weary, wintry hours ? 
 
 " Oh child of love and blessing, 
 Young blossom of life's tree — 
 My spirit trembles but to think 
 What time may make of thee !
 
 life's matins. 171 
 
 " Yet of the unveiled future 
 
 Would knowledge might be given !" 
 Then voices of the unseen ones 
 Made answer back from heaven. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 " Tears he must shed unnumbered ; 
 And he must strive with care, 
 As strives in war the armed man : 
 And human woe must bear. 
 
 " Must learn that joy is mockery ; 
 That man doth mask his heart ; 
 Must prove the trusted faithless ; 
 And see the loved depart ! 
 
 " Must feel himself alone, alone ; 
 
 Must weep when none can see ; 
 Then lock his grief, like treasure up, 
 For lack of sympathy. 
 
 " Must prove all human knowledge 
 A burden, a deceit ; 
 And many a nattering friendship find 
 A dark and hollow cheat.
 
 172 life's matins. 
 
 Well may'st thou weep, fond mother ; — 
 
 For what can life bequeath, 
 But tears and sighs unnumbered, 
 
 But watching, change, and death !" 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 " Rejoice, rejoice, fond mother, 
 That thou hast given birth, 
 To this immortal being, 
 
 To this sweet child of earth ! 
 
 " The pearl within the ocean, 
 The gold within the mine, 
 Have not a thousandth part the worth 
 Of this fair child of thine ! 
 
 ' Oh fond and anxious mother, 
 Look up with joyful eyes, 
 For a boundless wealth of love and power 
 In that young spirit lies ! 
 
 " Love to enfold all natures 
 In one benign embrace; 
 Power to diffuse a blessing wide 
 O'er all the human race !
 
 LIFE S MATINS. 
 
 173 
 
 " Bless God both night and morning ; 
 Be thine a joyful heart; 
 For the child of mortal parents hath 
 With the Eternal part! 
 
 " The stars shall dim their brightness : 
 And as a parched scroll 
 The earth shall fade, but ne'er shall fade 
 The undying human soul ! 
 
 " Oh then rejoice, fond mother, 
 That thou hast given birth 
 To this immortal being, 
 
 To this fair child of earth !" 
 
 \ ' ' it 
 
 ••. . r . JU
 
 THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT. 
 
 How goodly is the earth ! 
 
 Look round about and see 
 The green and fertile field; 
 
 The mighty branched tree ; 
 The little flowers out-spread 
 
 In such variety ! 
 Behold the lovely things 
 That dance on airy wings ; 
 The birds whose summer pleasure 
 Is not of stinted measure; 
 The grassy vales, the hills ; 
 The flower-embordered rills ; 
 The clouds that lie at rest 
 Upon the noonday's breast; 
 
 Behold all these and know, 
 How goodly is the earth !
 
 THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT. 175 
 
 How goodly is the earth ! 
 
 Its mountain-tops behold ; 
 Its rivers broad and strong ; 
 
 Its solemn forests old; 
 Its wealth of flocks and herds ; 
 
 Its precious stones and gold; 
 Behold the radiant isles 
 "With which old ocean smiles; 
 Behold the seasons run, 
 Obedient to the sun; 
 The gracious showers descend ; 
 Life springing without end; 
 By day the glorious light ; 
 The starry pomp by night; — 
 
 Behold all these, and know 
 How goodly is the earth ! 
 
 How goodly is the earth ! 
 
 Yet if this earth be made 
 So goodly, wherein all 
 
 That is shall droop and fade ; 
 Wherein the glorious light 
 
 Hath still its fellow, shade; —
 
 176 THIS WORLD AM) THE NEXT. 
 
 So goodly, where is strife 
 Ever 'twixt death and life ; 
 "Where trouble dims the eye ; 
 AY here sin hath mastery ; 
 How much more bright and fair, 
 Will be that region, where 
 The saints of God shall rest 
 Rejoicing with the blessed ; — 
 "Where pain is not, nor death, — 
 The Paradise of God ! 
 
 »» --»)-., 
 
 ML 
 
 <^=- "" -^^sP*-- -^^
 
 A LIFE'S SORROW. 
 
 > 
 
 AN OLD MAN S NARRATIVE. 
 
 My life hath had its curse; and I will tell 
 To yon its dark and troubled history. 
 
 Brethren you are ; oh then as brethren dwell, 
 Linked soul to soul in blessed unity ; 
 Like the rejoicing branches of a tree, 
 
 All braving storm, all sharing sunny weather, 
 
 All putting on their leaves, and withering all 
 together. 
 
 I had a brother. Asa spring of joy 
 Was he unto the gladness of iny youth ; 
 And in our guileless confidence, each boy, 
 Vowed a sweet vow of everlasting truth, 
 All sympathetic love, all generous ruth ; 
 Alas ! that years the noble heart should tame, 
 And the boy's virtue put the man to shame ! 
 
 N
 
 17S a life's sorrow. 
 
 I was the elder ; and as years passed on 
 Men paid invidious homage to the heir; 
 
 And pride, which was the sin of angels, won 
 Qui- human hearts; their guilt I will not spare 
 If I was proud, the boy began to wear 
 
 A lip of scorn, and paid me back my pride, 
 
 With arrowy wit that wounded and defied. 
 
 Still he was dear to me, and I would gaze 
 With yearning heart upon him as he went 
 
 Past me in silent pride, and inly praised 
 His godlike form, and the fair lineament 
 Of his fine countenance, as eloquent 
 
 As if it breathed forth music ; and his voice 
 
 Oh how its tones could soften and rejoice ! 
 
 Strange was it, that a brother, thus my pride, 
 Grew to my friendship so estranged and cold ; 
 
 Strange was it, that kind spirits erst allied 
 By kindred fellowship, so proved of old, 
 Were sundered and to separate interests sold ! 
 
 I know not how it was ; but pride was strong 
 
 In either breast and did the other wrong.
 
 a life's sorrow. 179 
 
 There was another cause — we fiercely strove 
 In an ambitious race; — but worse than all, 
 
 We met, two rival combatants in love : 
 My brother was the victor, and my fall, 
 Maddening my jealous pride, turned love to 
 
 gall. 
 There was no lingering kindness more. We 
 
 parted, 
 Each on his separate way, the severed-hearted. 
 
 For years we met not ; met not till we stood, 
 Silent and moody, by our father's bed, 
 
 Each with his hatred seemingly subdued 
 
 Whilst in the presence of that reverent head : 
 Surely our stedfast rancour might have fled 
 
 When that good father joined our hands and 
 smiled, 
 
 And died believing we were reconciled! 
 
 And so we might have been ; but there were 
 those 
 
 Who found advantage in our longer hate; 
 Who stepped between our hearts and kept us foes, 
 
 And taught that hatred was inviolate : — 
 
 K 2
 
 ISO a life's sorrow. 
 
 Fools to lie duped by such! But ah, too late 
 True knowledge and repentance come; and back 
 I look in woe upon life's blighted track ! 
 
 We were the victims of the arts we scorned ; 
 We were like clay within the potter's hand : 
 
 And so again we parted. He adorned 
 
 The courtly world : his wit and manners bland 
 The hearts of men and women could com- 
 mand. 
 
 I too ran folly's round, till tired of pleasure, 
 
 I sought repose in tranquil, rural leisure. 
 
 Ere long he left his native land, and went 
 
 Into the East with pomp and power girt round. 
 And so years past: the morn of life was spent, 
 And manhood's noon advanced with splendour 
 
 crowned ; 
 They said 'mid kingly luxury without bound, 
 He dwelt in joy ; and that his blessings ever 
 Flowed like that land's unmeasured, bounteous 
 river.
 
 a life's sorrow. 181 
 
 And the world worshipped him, for he was great — 
 Great in the council, greater in the field. 
 
 And I too had my blessings, for I sate 
 Amid my little ones : the fount unsealed 
 Of my heart's wronged affections seemed to yield 
 
 A tenfold current : and my babes, like light 
 
 Unto the captive's gaze, rejoiced my sight. 
 
 I dwelt within my home an altered man ; 
 
 Again all tenderness and love was sweet, 
 'Twas as if fresh existence had began, 
 
 Since pleasant welcomes were sent forth to 
 greet 
 
 My coming, and the sound of little feet 
 Was on my floor, and bright and loving eyes 
 Beamed on me without feigning a disguise. 
 
 As the chill snows of winter melt away 
 
 Before the genial spring, so from my heart 
 Passed hatred and revenge ; and I could pray 
 For pardon, pardoning all ; my soul was 
 
 blessed 
 With answered love, and hopes whereon to 
 rest
 
 182 a life's sorrow. 
 
 My joy in years to come ; I asked no more, 
 The cup of that rich blessedness ran o'er. 
 
 Alas ! even then the brightness of my life 
 
 Again grew dim ; my fount of joy was dried ; 
 
 My soul was doomed to bear a heavier strife 
 Than it had borne ! — my children at my side 
 In their meek, loving beauty, dropped and 
 died — 
 
 First they, and then their mother ! Did I weep ? 
 
 N< >, tears are not for griefs intense and deep ! 
 
 Ah me ! those weary days, those painful nights, 
 When voices from the dead were in mine ear, 
 
 And I had visions of my lost delights, 
 And saw the lovely and the loving near, 
 Then woke and knew my home so dim and 
 drear ! 
 
 What marvel if I prayed that I might die, 
 
 In my soul's great, unchastened misery ! 
 
 I had known sorrow, and remorse, and shame, 
 But never knew I misery till that time ;
 
 A LIFE S SORROW 183 
 
 And in my soul sprang up the torturing blame, 
 That they had died for my unpardoned crime ! 
 Then madness followed; and my manhood's 
 prime 
 Passed like a dark and hideous dream away, 
 Without a memory left of night or clay. 
 
 T dwelt within my childhood's home, and yet 
 I wist not of each dear familiar place ; 
 
 My soul was in a gloomy darkness set 
 
 Engulphed in deadness for a season's space, 
 
 At length light beamed ; a ray of heavenly grace 
 
 Upon my bowed and darkened spirit lay, 
 
 Healing its wounds, and giving power to pray, 
 
 I rose a sorrowing man, and yet renewed ; 
 
 Resigned, although abased to the dust; 
 I felt that God was righteous, true, and good, 
 
 And though severe in awful judgment, just ; 
 
 Therefore in him I put undoubting trust, 
 And walked once more among my fellow-men, 
 Yet in their vain joys mingling not again.
 
 184 a life's sorrow. 
 
 My home was still a solitude ; none sought 
 Nor found in me companion ; yet I pined 
 For something which might win my weary 
 thought 
 From its deep anguish ; some strong, generous: 
 
 mind, 
 Round which my lorn affections might be 
 twined ; 
 Some truthful heart on which mine own might 
 
 lean, 
 And still from life some scattered comfort glean. 
 
 The dead, alas ! I sorrowed for the dead, 
 Until well-nigh my madness had returned ; 
 
 Till memory of them grew a thing of dread, 
 And therefore towards a living friend I yearned, 
 My brother ! then my soul unto thee turned ; 
 
 Then pined I for thy spirit's buoyant play, 
 
 Like the chained captive for the light of day ! 
 
 The kindness of his youth came back to me ; 
 I saw his form in visions of the night,
 
 A LIFE S SORROW. 185 
 
 I seemed to hear his footsteps light and free 
 Upon my floors ; the memoried delight 
 Of his rich voice came back with sweeter 
 might ! 
 Perchance 'twas madness — so I often thought 
 For with insatiate zeal in me it wrought. 
 
 " I will arise," I cried, " like him of yore, 
 The con science- stricken prodigal, and lay 
 
 Myself, as in the dust, his face before, 
 
 And, ' I have sinned, my brother 1' I will say — 
 ' Forgive, forgive !' The clouds shall pass 
 away, 
 
 And I will banquet on his love ; and rest 
 
 My weary soul on his sustaining breast !" 
 
 I gathered up my strength ; I asked of none 
 Council or aid : I crossed the desert sea ; 
 
 The purpose of my soul, to all unknown, 
 Was yet supporting energy to me. 
 I was like one from cruel bonds set free, 
 
 Who walks exulting on, yet telleth not 
 
 The all-sufficing gladness of his lot.
 
 1M> A LIFE'S SORROW. 
 
 Through the great cities of the East I pass- '1 
 Into the kingdom where he reigned supreme; 
 
 I came unto a gorgeous palace, vast 
 As the creation of a poet's dream : — 
 My strength gave way, how little did I seem ! 
 
 I felt like Joseph's brethren, mean and base, 
 
 I turned aside and dared not meet his face. 
 
 Hard by there was a grove of cypress trees ; 
 A place, as if for mourning spirits made ; 
 
 Thither I sped, my burdened heart to ease 3 
 And weep unseen within the secret shade. — 
 A mighty woe that cypress grove displayed ! 
 
 Oh let me weep ! you will not say that tears 
 
 "Wrung by that sorrow can be stanched by years ! 
 
 There was a tomb ; — a tomb as of a king ; 
 A gorgeous palace of the unconscious dead. 
 
 My heart died in me, like the failing wing 
 Of the struck bird, as on that wall I read 
 My brother's name ! Feeling and memory fled ; 
 
 The flood-gates of my misery gave way, 
 
 And senseless on the marble floor I lay.
 
 a life's sorrow. 187 
 
 I lay for hours ; and when my sense returned 
 The day was o'er; no moon was in the sky, 
 
 But the thick- strewn, eternal planets burned 
 In their celestial beauty stedfastly ; — 
 It seemed each star was as a heavenly eye 
 
 Looking upon my sorrow; — thus I deemed, 
 
 And sate within the tomb ti 11 morning beamed. 
 
 — For this I crossed the sea: in those far wilds, 
 Through perils numberless, for this I went ! 
 
 What followed next I tell not : as a child's 
 Again my soul was feeble ; too much spent 
 To suffer as of old, or to lament. 
 
 I came back to the scenes where life began, 
 
 By griefs, not years, a bowed and aged man. 
 
 I murmur not; but with submissive will 
 Resign to woe the evening of my day; 
 
 On the great morrow love will have its fill; 
 God will forgive our poor repentant clay, 
 Nor thrust us from his paradise away ! 
 
 But brethren, be ye warned ! Oh do not sever 
 
 Your kindred hearts, which should be linked 
 for ever !
 
 THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NI-W 
 
 My old friend, lie was a good old friend, 
 And I thought, like a fool, his face to mend ; 
 I got another ; but ah ! to my cost 
 I found him unlike the one I had lost! 
 I and my friend, we were bred together : — 
 He had a smile like the summer weather ; 
 A kind warm heart ; and a hand as free : — 
 My friend, he was all the world to me ! 
 
 I could sit with him and crack many a joke, 
 
 And talk of old times and the village folk ; 
 
 He had been with us at the Christmas time ; 
 
 He knew every tree we used to climb ; 
 
 And where we played; and what befel, 
 
 My dear old friend remembered well. 
 
 It did me good but to see his face ; 
 
 And I've put another friend in his place ! 
 
 I wonder how such a thing could be, 
 
 For my old friend would not have slighted me
 
 THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW. 189 
 
 Oh my fine new friend, he is smooth and bland, 
 
 With a jewelled ring or two on his hand; 
 
 He visits my lord and my lady fair; 
 
 He hums the last new opera air. 
 
 He takes not the children on his knee ; 
 
 My faithful hound reproacheth me, 
 
 For he snarls when my new friend draweth near, 
 
 But my good old friend to the brute was dear ! 
 
 I wonder how I such thing could do, 
 
 As change the old friend for the new ! 
 
 My rare old friend, he read the plays, 
 
 That were written in Master Shakspeare's days ; 
 
 He found in them wit and moral good : — 
 
 My new friend thinks them coarse and rude : — 
 
 And many a pleasant song he sung, 
 
 Because they were made when we were young; 
 
 He was not too grand, not he, to know 
 
 The merry old songs made long ago. 
 
 He writ his name on the window-pane ; — 
 
 It was cracked by my new friend's riding-cane ! 
 
 My good old friend, "he tirled at the pin," 
 He opened the door and entered in;
 
 190 THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW. 
 
 We all were glad to see his face 
 As he took at the fire his 'customed place, 
 And the little children, loud in glee, 
 They welcomed him as they welcome me. 
 He knew our griefs, our joys he shared ; 
 There cannot be Mend with him compared ; 
 We had tried him lung, had found him true ! 
 Why changed I the old friend for the new ? 
 
 My new friend cometh in lordly state; 
 
 He peals a startling ring at the gate; 
 
 There's hurry and pomp, there's pride and din, 
 
 And my new friend bravely entereth in. 
 
 I bring out the noblest wines for cheer, 
 
 I make him a feast that costeth dear ; 
 
 But he knows not what in my heart lies deep;- 
 
 He may laugh with me, but never shall weep, 
 
 For there is no bond between us twain ; 
 
 And I sigh for my dear old friend again ; 
 
 And thus, too late, I bitterly rue 
 
 That I changed the old friend for the new !
 
 MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY. 
 
 A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME- 
 
 fart gixtt 
 
 " Arise, my maiden, Mabel," 
 The mother said, " arise, 
 For the golden sun of Midsummer 
 Is shining in the skies.
 
 192 MABEL ON 
 
 " Arise my little maiden, 
 
 For thou must speed away, 
 
 To wait upon thy grandmother 
 
 This livelong summer day. 
 
 " And thou must carry with thee 
 This wheaten cake so fine ; 
 This new-made pat of hutter ; 
 This little flask of wine ! 
 
 " And tell the dear old bod}'-, 
 This day I cannot come, 
 For the good man went out yester-morn, 
 And he is not come home. 
 
 " And more than this, poor Amy 
 Upon my knee doth lie; 
 I fear me, with this fever-pain 
 The little child will die ! 
 
 "And thou can'st help thy grandmother; 
 The table thou can'st spread ; 
 Can'st feed the little dog and bird, 
 And thou can'st make her bed.
 
 MIDSUMMER DAY. 193 
 
 " And thou canst fetch the water, 
 From the lady-well hard by ; 
 And thou can'st gather from the wood 
 The fagots brown and dry. 
 
 " Can'st go down to the lonesome glen, 
 To milk the mother-ewe ; 
 This is the work, my Mabel, 
 That thou wilt have to do. 
 
 " But listen now, my Mabel, 
 This is Midsummer-day, 
 When all the fairy people 
 From elf-land come away. 
 
 " And when thou art in lonesome glen, 
 Keep by the running burn, 
 And do not pluck the strawberry flower, 
 Nor break the lady-fern. 
 
 " But think not of the fairy folk, 
 Lest mischief should befall ; 
 Think only of poor Amy, 
 And how thou lov'st us all.
 
 194 MA 15 EL ON 
 
 " Yet keep good heart, my Mabel, 
 If thou the fairies see, 
 And give them kindly answer 
 If they should speak to thee. 
 
 " And when into the fir- wood 
 Thou go'st for fagots brown, 
 Do not, like idle children, 
 Go wandering up and down. 
 
 " But, fill thy little apron, 
 
 My child, with earnest speed ; 
 And that thou break no living bough 
 "Within the wood, take heed. 
 
 " For they are spiteful brownies 
 Who in the wood abide, 
 So be thou careful of this thing, 
 Lest evil should betide. 
 
 " But think not, little Mabel, 
 
 AVhilst thou art in the wood, 
 Of dwarfish, wilful brownies, 
 But of the Father good.
 
 MIDSUMMER DAY. 195 
 
 " And when thou goest to the spring, 
 To fetch the water thence, 
 Do not disturb the little stream, 
 Lest this should give offence. 
 
 " For the queen of all the fairies 
 She loves that water bright ; 
 I've seen her drinking there myself 
 On many a summer night. 
 
 " But she's a gracious lady, 
 
 And her thou need'st not fear; 
 Only disturb thou not the stream, 
 Nor spill the water clear !" 
 
 " Now all this I will heed, mother, 
 "Will no word disobey, 
 And wait upon the grandmother 
 This livelong summer day !" 
 
 o2
 
 19G MABEL ON 
 
 ^lart ictonb. 
 
 — * — 
 
 Away tripped little Mabel, 
 
 With the wheaten cake so fine ; 
 
 With the new-made pat of butter, 
 And the little flask of wine 
 
 And long before the sun was hot, 
 And morning mists had cleared, 
 
 Beside the good old grandmother 
 The willing child appeared. 
 
 And all her mother's message 
 She told with right good-will, 
 
 How that the father was away, 
 And the little child was ill. 
 
 And then she swept the hearth up clean, 
 And then the table spread ; 
 
 And next she fed the dog and bird ; 
 And then she made the bed. 
 
 " And go now," said the grandmother, 
 " Ten paces down the dell, 
 And bring in water for the day ; 
 Thou know'st the lady-well !"
 
 MIDSUMMER DAY. 19/ 
 
 The first time that good Mabel went, 
 
 Nothing at all saw she, 
 Except a bird — a sky-blue bird — 
 
 That sate upon a tree. 
 
 The next time that good Mabel went, 
 
 There sate a lady bright 
 Beside the well, — a lady small, 
 
 All clothed in green and white. 
 
 A curtsey low made Mabel, 
 
 And then she stooped to fill 
 Her pitcher at the sparkling spring, 
 
 But no drop did she spill. 
 
 " Thou art a handy maiden," 
 
 The fairy lady said; 
 " Thou hast not spilled a drop, nor yet 
 
 The fair spring troubled ! 
 
 "And for this thing which thou hast done, 
 Yet may'st not understand, 
 I give to thee a better gift 
 Than houses or than land.
 
 L98 MABEL ON 
 
 " Thou shalt do well, whate'er tliou dost, 
 As tliou hast done this day ; 
 Shalt have the will and power to pie;- 
 And shalt be loved alway 
 
 Thus having said, she passed from sight, 
 And nought could Mabel see, 
 
 Bnt the little bird, the sky-blue bird, 
 Upon the leafy tree. 
 
 — "And now go," said the grandmother, 
 " And fetch in fagots dry ; 
 All in the neighbouring fir-wood, 
 Beneath the trees they lie." 
 
 Away went kind, good Mabel, 
 
 Into the fir-wood near. 
 Where all the ground was dry and brown. 
 
 And the grass grew thin and sere. 
 
 She did not wander up and down, 
 
 Nor yet a live branch pull, 
 But steadily, of the fallen boughs 
 
 She picked her apron full.
 
 MIDSUMMER DAY. 190 
 
 And when the wild-wood brownies 
 
 Came sliding to her mind, 
 She drove them thence, as she was told, 
 
 "With home-thoughts sweet and kind. 
 
 But all that while the brownies 
 
 Within the fir-wood still, 
 They watched her how she picked the wood, 
 
 And strove to do no ill. 
 
 " And oh, but she is small and neat," 
 Said one, " 'twere shame to spite 
 A creature so demure and meek, 
 A creature harmless quite ! " 
 
 " Look only," said another, 
 " At her little gown of blue ; 
 At the kerchief pinned about her head, 
 And at her little shoe !" 
 
 " Oh, but she is a comely child," 
 Said a third, " and we will lay 
 A good-luck-penny in her path, 
 A boon for her this day, —
 
 200 MABEL ON 
 
 Seeing she broke no living wood ; 
 No live thing did affray." 
 
 With that the smallest penny, 
 
 Of the finest silver ore, 
 Upon the dry and slippery path, 
 
 Lay Mabel's feet before. 
 
 With joy she picked the penny up, 
 
 The fairy penny good ; 
 And with her fagots dry and brown 
 
 "Went wondering from the wood. 
 
 " Now she has that," said the brownies, 
 " Let flax be ever so dear, 
 Will buy her clothes of the very best, 
 For many and many a year ! " 
 
 — " And go, now," said the grandmother, 
 " Since falling is the dew, 
 Go down unto the lonesome glen, 
 And milk the mother-ewe!"
 
 MIDSUMMER DAY. 201 
 
 All down into the lonesome glen, 
 
 Through copses thick and wild ; 
 Through moist, rank grass, by trickling streams 
 
 Went on the willing child. 
 
 And when she came to lonesome glen, 
 
 She kept beside the burn, 
 And neither plucked the strawberry-flower, 
 
 Nor broke the lady-fern. 
 
 And while she milked the mother-ewe 
 
 Within the lonesome glen, 
 She wished that little Amy 
 
 Were strong and well again. 
 
 And soon as she had thought this thought, 
 
 She heard a coming sound, 
 As if a thousand fairy-folk 
 
 Were gathering all around. 
 
 And then she heard a little voice, 
 
 Shrill as the midge's wing, 
 That spake aloud, " a human child 
 
 Is here — yet mark this thing !
 
 202 MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY. 
 
 " The lady-fern is all unbroke, 
 
 The strawberry-flower unta'en ! 
 What shall be done for her, who still 
 From mischief can refrain?" 
 
 "Give her a fairy- cake!" said one, 
 " Grant her a wish 1" said three ; 
 " The latest wish that she hath wished," 
 Said all, " whate'er it be !" 
 
 — Kind Mabel heard the words they spake, 
 And from the lonesome glen, 
 
 Unto the good old grandmother 
 Went gladly back again. 
 
 Thus happened it to Mabel 
 
 On that Midsummer- day, 
 And these three fairy-blessings 
 
 She took with her away. 
 
 — 'Tis good to make all duty sweet, 
 
 To be alert and kind; 
 'Tis good, like little Mabel, 
 
 To have a willing mind !
 
 Tzjrs!*? 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 Awake, arise, good Christians, 
 Let nothing you dismay ; 
 
 Remember Christ our Saviour 
 Was born upon this day ! 
 
 The self-same moon was shining 
 That now is in the sky, 
 
 When a holy band of angels 
 Came down from God on high. 
 
 i 
 
 Came down on clouds of glory, 
 
 Arrayed in shining light, 
 Unto the shepherd-people 
 
 Who watched their flocks by night.
 
 204 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 And through the midnight silence 
 The heavenly host began, 
 " Glory to God the highest ; 
 On earth good- will to man ! 
 
 " Fear not, we bring good tidings, 
 For, on this happy morn, 
 The promised one, the Saviour, 
 In Bethlehem town is born !" 
 
 Up rose the joyful shepherds 
 
 From the ground whereon they lay, 
 
 As ye should rise good Christians, 
 To hail this blessed day ! 
 
 Up rose the simple shepherds, 
 All with a joyful mind ; 
 " And let us go, with speed," said they, 
 " This holy child to find I" 
 
 Not in a kingly palace 
 
 The son of God they found, 
 
 But in a lowly manger 
 Where oxen fed around.
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 205 
 
 The glorious king of heaven ; 
 
 The Lord of all the earth, 
 In mercy condescended 
 
 To be of humble birth. 
 
 There worshipped him the wise men, 
 
 As prophets had foretold ; 
 And laid their gifts before him, 
 
 Frankincense, myrrh, and gold. 
 
 Long looked the simple shepherds, 
 
 With holy wonder stirred, 
 Then praised Grod for all the things 
 
 "Which they had seen and heard. 
 
 And homeward went rejoicing 
 
 Upon that Christmas morn, 
 Declaring unto every one, 
 
 That Jesus Christ was born. 
 
 That he was born, — the Saviour, 
 
 The promised one of old ; 
 That they had seen the Son of God 
 
 To every one they told.
 
 20G 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 And, like unto the shepherds, 
 We wander far and near, 
 
 And hid ye wake, good Christians, 
 The joyful news to hear. 
 
 Awake, arise, good Christians, 
 Let nothing you dismay, 
 
 Remember Christ the Saviour 
 Was born upon this day ! 

 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Sporting through the forest wide ; 
 Playing by the water-side ; 
 Wandering o'er the heathy fells ; 
 Down within the woodland dells ; 
 All among the mountains wild, 
 Dwelleth many a little child ! 
 In the baron's hall of pride ; 
 By the poor man's dull fireside : 
 'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean, 
 Little children may be seen, 
 Like the flowers that spring up fair, 
 Bright and countless, everywhere ! 
 
 In the far isles of the main ; 
 In the desert's lone domain ;
 
 208 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 In the savage mountain-glen, 
 'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ; 
 Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone : 
 Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 
 On a league of peopled ground, 
 Little children may be found! 
 
 Blessings on them ! they in me 
 Move a kindly sympathy, 
 With their wishes, hopes, and fears ; 
 With their laughter and their tears ; 
 With their wonder so intense, 
 And their small experience ! 
 
 Little children, not alone 
 On the wide earth are ye known, 
 'Mid its labours and its cares, 
 'Mid its sufferings and its snares. 
 Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
 In the world of love and life, 
 Where no sinful thing hath trod ; 
 In the presence of your God, 
 Spotless, blameless, glorified, 
 Little children, ye abide !
 
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