That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while from They please him best who labour most to do in roof to floor From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child with wonder cast, Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than the last. peace his will : So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be given Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven." For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest showed, was his look, By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream-recorded in here, there glowed, this book, Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of Lest all that passed should melt away in silence gratitude; from my mind, Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech As visions still more bright have done, and left no POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. I. THE BROTHERS. "THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, To Jane, his wife, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, "Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust A fellow-mariner;-and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. -They were the last of all their race: and now, When Leonard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, *This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of the Hurricane. He to the solitary church-yard turned; That he began to doubt; and even to hope And oh what joy this recollection now By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short,-and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead.-Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. We are not all that perish. -I remember, Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, As if they had been made that they might be For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side- Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, life: Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you: And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me ! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread |