« AnteriorContinuar »
420 ELIZABETH AND THE ROSES.
Stern Ludwig o'er the drawbridge passed,
She hears her husband's clanging spurs,
And underneath her apron's folds
But Ludwig breaks her silent prayer, —
O miracle! therein are spread
He cries, subdued his stubborn will,
And still she found her basket's store,
WES WILLIE. —Moir.
Fare-thee-well, our last and fairest!
Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well! God, who lent thee, hath recalled thee
Back with him and his to dwell. Fifteen moons their silver lustre
Only o'er thy brow had shed, When thy spirit joined the seraphs, And thy dust the dead.
Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling,
Shone thy presence bright and calm; Thou didst add a zest to pleasure;
To our sorrows thou wert balm; — Brighter beamed thine eyes than summer,
And thy first attempt at speech Thrilled our heart-strings with a rapture
Music ne'er could reach.
As we gazed upon thee sleeping,
With thy fine, fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel,
Who to earth from heaven had strayed; And, entranced, we watched the vision,
Half in hope, and half affright, Lest what we deemed ours, and earthly,
Should dissolve in light.
Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,
Sullen clouds begrimed the sky, When the first drear doubt oppressed us,
That our child was doomed to die! Through each long night-watch, the taper
Showed the hectic of his cheek; And each anxious dawn belie1 d him
More worn out and weak.
Like the shot-star, in blue midnight,
Like the rainbow, ray by ray,
Loveliest in thy last decay!
Came and went thy last, low breath,
Is it so? Can this be death?
Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones,
Of how dear ye were to us,
Haunt our troubled spirits thus?
Flit our visions of despair?
Says, " Ye are not there!"
Where, then, are ye? With the Saviour
Blest, forever blest, are ye,
Who have heard his "Come to me!"
Now ye lean upon his breast,
And the weary rest.
We are wicked—we are weary —
For us pray, and for us plead;
May through you the sinful heed; —
All our faults may be forgiven;
At the gates of heaven!
THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. — Broicning.
Morning, evening, noon, and night,
Then to his poor trade he turned,
Hard he labored, long and well;
But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, " Praise God."
Then back again his curls he threw,
Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done!
"As well as if thy voice to-day
Were praising God, the Pope's great way.
"This Easter Day, the Pope at Eome Praises God from Peter's dome."
Said Theocrite, " Would God that I
"Might praise Him, that great way, and die!"
Night passed, day shone,
With God a day endures alway,
God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight."
424 THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.
Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,
Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well i
And morning, evening, noon, and night,
And from a boy to youth he grew —
The man matured, and fell away
And ever o'er the trade he bent,
(He did God's will; to him, all one
God said, "A praise is in mine ear;
"So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from my footstool go.
"Clearer loves sound other ways;
Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
'T was Easter Day; he flew to Rome?
In the tiring-room, close by