But nought can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms his lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go,

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures, lifted fair,

More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south-wind free O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision, through the night
Would all my happy senses sway
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the starry way,

Holding our little lamb asleep,

While, like the murmur of the sea, Sounded that voice along the deep,

Saying, "Arise and follow me!"

CAREY.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

AMONG the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all: Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe,

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest,

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep

In the lap of that old dim forest

He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face:
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty,

Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.

The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweet-brier and the violet
The pious hand of Spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given

The homage of the pilgrim's knee— But oft the sweetest birds of Heaven Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell

The hermit squirrel steals to drink, And flocks which cluster to their bell Recline along thy brink.

And here the waggoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cool and generous boon; Here, from the sultry harvest fields

The reapers rest at noon.

And oft the beggar marked with tan,
In rusty garments grey with dust,
Here sits and dips his little can,

And breaks his scanty crust;

And, lulled beside thy whispering stream, Oft drops to slumber unawares,

And sees the angel of his dream

Upon celestial stairs.

Dear dweller by the dusty way,

Thou saint within a mossy shrine,

The tribute of a heart to-day
Weary and worn is thine!