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

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

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

Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence him in my arms, was placed.

And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint

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

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

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

I whispered, “ Yet a little while, dear Child ! thou The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all art my own, sufficing stay.

To show thee some delightful thing, in country or

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

place and calm

St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of THE POET'S DREAM,

Notre Dame ?

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SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY.

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

would please thee most broke out in power,

| of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, within

can boast !” that very hour,

“ My Mother,” said the Boy, “ was born near to a Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from

I blessed Tree, clouds that hid the sky,

The Chapel Oak of Allonville ; good Angel, show

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

On wings, from broad and stedfast poise let loose Nor could my heart by second thoughts from

by this reply, heaviness be cleared,

For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away then did For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned

we fly; hut appeared ;

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

fresh verdure drest ; And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air,

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

grave, was not deprest. prayer. :

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

light that broke articulate call,

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

down on that huge oak, of All ;

For length of days so much revered, so famous

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

For twofold hallowing—Nature's care, and work With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that

of human hands? place.

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

and stair that wound

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For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest showed,

was his look, By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream-recorded in here, there glowed,

this book, Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of Lest all that passed should melt away in silence gratitude;

from my mind, Sight that inspired accordant thoughts ; and speech | As visions still more bright have done, and left no I thus renewed:

trace behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, their fancies feed.* in peace.

--- « Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness

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

THE WESTMORELAND GIRL, 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

PART I. of this Tree;

SEEK who will delight in fable

I shall tell you truth. A Lamb “ Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous

Leapt from this steep bank to follow
Church in Rome

'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam.
Where thousands meet to worship God under a
mighty Dome;

* See note.

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TO MY GRANDCHILDREN.

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POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS.

THE BROTHERS. “ THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must

live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder ? In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread And a few natural graves."

To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering

wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who, in the open air, with due accord Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Many a long look of wonder : and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked; and, down the path That from his cottage to the church-yard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters; with the mariners
A fellow-mariner;-and so had fared
Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees:-- and, when the regular wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days and

weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang

Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; | And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam

Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills--with dwellings among trees,

And shepherds clad in the same country grey | Which he himself had worn.

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,

'Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year

* 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;

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leonard

But, surely, yonderį That he had seen this heap of turf before,

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

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

(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked

There were two springs which bubbled side by Through fields which once had been well known to

side. him:

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

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

Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared; And, looking round, imagined that he saw

The other, left behind, is flowing still. Strange alteration wrought on every side

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly state Your years make up one peaceful family ;

Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's home And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. And welcome gone, they are so like each other, Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral

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

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

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