A frightened song-bird; and a child Who seemed the chief, said very mild, "Hush! keep this morning undefiled."

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres ;
His soul upon his brow appears

In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said, "What are your palms for?".

He answered,

66

on a poet dead.

"To be spread,"

"The poet died last month; and now

The world, which had been somewhat slow
In honouring his living brow,

"Commands the palms-They must be strown On his new marble very soon,

In a procession of the town."

I sighed, and said, "Did he foresee
Any such honour?" "Verily

I cannot tell you," answered he.

"But this I know,-I fain would lay Mine own head down, another day, As he did,-with the fame away.

"A lily, a friend's hand had plucked, Lay by his death-bed, which he looked As deep down as a bee had sucked;

"Then, turning to the lattice, gazed
O'er hill and river, and upraised
His eyes illumined and amazed

"With the world's beauty, up to God,
Re-offering, on his iris broad,
The images of things bestowed

"By the chief Poet,-'God!' he cried,
'Be praised for anguish, which has tried;
For Beauty, which has satisfied :-

666

'For this world's presence, half within And half without me--sound and sceneThis sense of Being and Having been.

"I thank Thee that my soul hath room

For Thy grand world! Both guests may come— Beauty, to soul--Body, to tomb!

"I am content to be so weak,-Put strength into the words I speak, And I am strong in what I seek.

"I am content to be so bare Before the archers; everywhere

My wounds being stroked by heavenly air

"I laid my soul before Thy feet,

That Images of fair and sweet
Should walk to other men on it.

"I am content to feel the step
Of each pure Image !-let those keep
To mandragore, who care to sleep.

"I am content to touch the brink
Of the other goblet, and I think
My bitter drink a wholesome drink.

"Because my portion was assigned Wholesome and bitter-Thou art kind, And I am blessed to my mind.

"Gifted for giving, I receive

The maythorn, and its scent outgive!
I grieve not that I once did grieve.

"In my large joy of sight and touch
Beyond what others count for such,
I am content to suffer much.

"I know—is all the mourner saith,-.
Knowledge by suffering entereth;
And Life is perfected by Death.'"

The child spake nobly. Strange to hear, His infantine soft accents clear,

Charged with high meanings, did appear,—

And fair to see, his form and face,—
Winged out with whiteness and pure grace
From the green darkness of the place.

Behind his head a palm-tree grew:
An orient beam, which pierced it through,
Transversely on his forehead drew

The figure of a palm-branch brown,
Traced on its brightness, up and down
In fine fair lines,—a shadow-crown.

Guido might paint his angels so~
A little angel, taught to go,
With holy words to saints below.

Such innocence of action yet
Significance of object met

In his whole bearing strong and sweet.

And all the children, the whole band,
Did round in rosy reverence stand,
Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

"And so he died," I whispered ;-"Nay,
Not so," the childish voice did say—
"That poet turned him, first, to pray

"In silence; and God heard the rest, 'Twixt the sun's footsteps down the west. Then he called one who loved him best,

"Yea, he called softly through the room (His voice was weak yet tender)-'Come,' He said, 'come nearer ! Let the bloom

"Of Life grow over, undenied, This bridge of Death, which is not wideI shall be soon at the other side.

666 'Come, kiss me!' So the one in truth Who loved him best-in love, not ruth, Bowed down and kissed him mouth to mouth.

"And, in that kiss of Love, was won Life's manumission. All was doneThe mouth that kissed last, kissed alone.

"But in the former, confluent kiss,
The same was sealed, I think, by his,
To words of truth and uprightness."

The child's voice trembled-his lips shook,
Like a rose leaning o'er a brook,
Which vibrates, though it is not struck.

"And who," I asked, a little moved,
Yet curious-eyed,
66 was this that loved
And kissed him last, as it behoved ?"

"I," softly said the child; and then,
"I" said he louder, once again.
"His son,—my rank is, among men.

"And now that men exalt his name,
I come to gather palms with them,
That holy Love may hallow Fame.

"He did not die alone; nor should His memory live so, 'mid these rude World-praisers a worse solitude.

"Me, a voice calleth to that tomb, Where these are strewing branch and bloom,--Saying, Come nearer !—and I come.

"Glory to God!" resumed he,

And his eyes smiled for victory

O'er their own tears, which I could see

Fallen on the palm, down cheek and chin

"That poet now hath entered in

The place of rest which is not sin.

"And while he rests, his songs, in troops, Walk up and down our earthly slopes, Companioned by diviner Hopes.

"But thou," I murmured,—to engage The child's speech farther-"hast an age Too tender for this orphanage."

"Glory to God-to God!" he saith-"KNOWLEDGE BY SUFFERING ENTERETH; AND LIFE IS PERFECTED BY DEATH."