The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars, Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star; Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed still The rapid line of motion, then at once XVII. THE LONGEST DAY. LET us quit the leafy arbour, Yet by some grave thoughts attended Is the longest of the year. Dora! sport, as now thou sportest, Who would check the happy feeling Yet at this impressive season, And, while shades to shades succeeding Tending to the darksome hollows Yet we mark it not ;-fruits redden, That absorbs time, space, and number; Follow thou the flowing river On whose breast are thither borne Thus when thou with Time hast travelled His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics | sprinkled o'er Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed, And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed. There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed, For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made. A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he. The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice, To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide, The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide. That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed. but nay, let -Here, Lady! might I cease; us before we part With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart, That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's appointed way, The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all sufficing stay. XIX. THE POET'S DREAM. JUST as those final words were penned, the sun And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared, For bodied forth before my eyes the crosscrowned hut appeared; And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air, I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in prayer. articulate call, Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the His lips were moving; and his eyes, upraised With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place. How beautiful is holiness!-what wonder if the sight, Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night? It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed, But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed. Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms, And And By lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms, bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay, giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. I whispered, "Yet a little while, dear Child! thou art my own, To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town. What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm St Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of Notre Dame? "St Quen's golden Shrine? Or choose what else would please thee most Of any wonder, Normandy, or all proud France, can boast!" "My Mother," said the Boy, "was born near to a blessed Tree, The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good Angel, show it me!" On wings, from broad and stedfast poise let loose by this reply, For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away then did we fly; O'er town and tower we flew, and fields in May's fresh verdure drest; The wings they did not flag; the Child, though grave, was not deprest. But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of light that broke Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked down on that huge oak, For length of days so much revered, so famous where it stands For work of human hands? twofold hallowing-Nature's care, and Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided round and round The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, and stair that wound Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we unsurveyed The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre of the shade. I lighted-opened with soft touch the chapel's iron door, Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while from roof to floor From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child | Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy! to thee with wonder cast, Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than the last. For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary showed, By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there glowed, Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude; Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech I thus renewed: "Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say, And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix; What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt By sudden pangs, what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt! "Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favoured lot is thine, Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine; From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release, Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace. "Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness and praise, Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy most busy days; And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small hut, will be Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel of this Tree; "Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty Dome: He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral rites, Yet not the less, in children's hymns and lonely prayer, delights. "God for his service needeth not proud work of human skill; They please him best who labour most to do in 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." The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look, Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream-recorded in this book, Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind, As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind. But oh that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme, Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream. from whom it flowed, Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 'twas bounteously bestowed, If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read Not loth, and listening Little-ones, hearttouched, their fancies feed. XX. THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. TO MY GRANDCHILDREN. SEEK Who will delight in fable, I shall tell you truth. A Lamb Peace and rest, as seems, before them Ob! it was a frightful current PART II. Now, to a maturer Audience, Loth to rule by strict command; Scarcely less than sacred passions, Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, Learn how she can feel alike Both for tiny harmless minnow And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike. Merciful protectress, kindling Many a captive hath she rescued, Nor will fail the like to render When his corse is laid in earth. What then wants the Child to temper, To control the froward impulse And a stedfast outward power Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 1. THE BROTHERS. Among the mountains, and he in his heart "THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds must live A profitable life: some glance along, To Jane, his wife, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, the field In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Of caves and trees:-and, when the regular Between the tropics filled the steady sail, Lengthening invisibly its weary lin Flashed round him images and hues that In union with the employment of his heart, On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees, And now, at last, Through twenty seasons; but he had been That he began to doubt; and even to hope reared That he had seen this heap of turf before, |