Who near his fountains sought obscure re

pose,

Yet were prepared as glorious lights to shine, Should that be needed for their sacred charge; Blest prisoners they, whose spirits are at large!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.

"The manner in which the Waldenses and heretics disseminated their principles among the Catholic gentry was by carrying with them a box of trinkets or articles of dress. Having entered the houses of the gentry, and disposed of some of their goods, they cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable than these, - inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could be protected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bible or Testament, and thereby many were deluded into heresy." R. SACCHO, Inquisitor of the twelfth century.

The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's queen might wear;

And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie;

I have brought them with me a weary way, will my gentle lady buy?"

And the lady smiled on the worn old man

through the dark and clustering curls Which veiled her brow as she bent to view his silks and glittering pearls ;

And she placed their price in the old man's hand, and lightly turned away,

But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call," My gentle lady, stay!"

“O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre flings,

Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on the lofty brow of kings,

A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not decay,

Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way!"

The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her form of grace was seen,

Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved their clasping pearls between ; "Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray and old, And name the price of thy precious gem, and my page shall count thy gold."

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folding robe he took!

66

Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it

prove as such to thee!

Nay-keep thy gold - I ask it not, for the word of God is free!"

The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left behind

Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden's mind,

And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth,

And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of youth!

And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil faith had power,

The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her bower;

And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet untrod,

Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

LE COLPORTEUR VAUDOIS.

The following translation of Mr. Whittier's poem into French was made by PROF. G. DE FELICE, of Montauban, France, and it is said by the Rev. J C. Fletcher to be taught to every Protestant child in France. A letter of thanks was written to Mr. Whittier in 1875 in the name of the Waldensian church, so highly is his poem prized by the primitive people amid the fastnesses of the Alps. OH regardez, ma noble et belle dame, Ses chaines d'or, ces joyaux précieux. Les voyez-vous. ces perles dont la flamme Effacerait un éclair de vos yeux? Voyez encore ces vêtements de soie

Qui pourraient plaire à plus d'un souverain.
Quand près de vous un heureux sort m'envie,
Achetez donc au pauvre pèlerin.

La noble dame, à l'âge où l'or est vaine,
Prit les joyaux, les quitta, les reprit,
Les enlaça dans ses cheveux d'ébène,
Se trouva belle, et puis elle sourit.
— Que te faut-il, vieillard? des mains d'un page
Dans un instant tu vas les recevoir.
Oh! pense à moi, si ton pèlerinage
Te reconduit auprès de ce manoir.
Mais l'étranger, d'une voix plus austère,
Lui dit: Ma fille, il me reste un trésor
Plus précieux que les biens de la terre,
Plus éclatant que les perles et l'or.
On voit pâlir aux clartés dont il brille
Les diamants dont les rois sont épris.
Quels jours heureux luiraient pour vous ma
fille.

Si vous aviez ma perle de grande prix !

Lord! teach us always thy voice to know. And to turn to thee from the world beside, Prepared, when our time has come to go, Whether at morn or eventide.

And to say when the heavens are rent in twain, When suns are darkened, and stars shall

Alee,

Lo! thou hast not called for us in vain, And we shall not call in vain for thee!

PHOEBE CARY.

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

A STORY OF HOLLAND.

THE good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:

"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go

While there is light to see,

To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me;

And take these cakes I made for him,

They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set."

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,

And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;

And set the turf a-blazing,

And brought the coarse black bread; That he might find a fire at night,

And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother,

With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow's tender shade;

And told them they'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight,

Though he would n't be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave, bright fellow,

With eye and conscience clear ;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he would n't have robbed a bird's-nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day

And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment,

And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand. 'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes;

But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means.

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,

And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.

For he knows the smallest leak may grow

To a flood in a single night;

And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! he has seen the danger, And, shouting a wild alarm,

He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm! He listens for the joyful sound

Of a footstep passing nigh;

And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry.

And he hears the rough wind blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,

But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.

He sees no hope, no succor,

His feeble voice is lost;

And every head was bared and bent

In tearful, reverent joy.

'Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero,

Remembered through the years;
But never one whose name so oft

Is named with loving tears.

And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!

PHOEBE CARY.

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUS

TINE.

SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,

That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine,

And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things;

The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes

The action of the nobler will:

All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.

GRAND rough old Martin Luther Bloomed fables - flowers on furze, The better the uncouther:

Do roses stick like burrs?

"A beggar asked an alms

One day at an abbey-door,” Said Luther; "but, seized with qualms, The Abbot replied, 'We 're poor!

"Poor, who had plenty once,

When gifts fell thick as rain: But they give us nought, for the nonce, And how should we give again?'

"Then the beggar, 'See

Of old, unless I err,

your

sins!

"Only, beware relapse!'

The Abbot hung his head. This beggar might be, perhaps, An angel," Luther said.

ROBERT BROWNING.

MARTIN LUTHER.

A Chamber in the Wartburg. Morning. MARTIN LUTHER writing.

MARTIN LUTHER.

OUR God, a tower of Strength is he,
A goodly wall and weapon ;
From all our need he helps us free,
That now to us doth happen.

The old evil foe

Doth in earnest grow,

In grim armor dight,

Much guile and great might; On earth there is none like him.

O yes; a tower of strength indeed,
A present help in all our need,

A sword and buckler is our God.
Innocent men have walked unshod
O'er burning ploughshares, and have trod
Unharmed on serpents in their path,
And laughed to scorn the Devil's wrath!

Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand
Where God hath led me by the hand,
And look down, with a heart at ease,
Over the pleasant neighborhoods,
Over the vast Thuringian Woods,
With flash of river, and gloom of trees,
With castles crowning the dizzy heights,
And farms and pastoral delights,
And the morning pouring everywhere
Its golden glory on the air.

Safe, yes, safe am I here at last,

Safe from the overwhelming blast

Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast,

And the howling demons of despair That hunted me like a beast to his lair.

Of our own might we nothing can ;
We soon are unprotected;
There fighteth for us the right Man,
Whom God himself elected.

Who is he? ye exclaim; Christus is his name, Lord of Sabaoth, Very God in troth; The field he holds forever.

Nothing can vex the evil more Than the name of Him whom we adore.

Therefore doth it delight me best
To stand in the choir among the rest,
With the great organ trumpeting
Through its metallic tubes, and sing :
Et verbum caro factum est!

These words the Devil cannot endure,
For he knoweth their meaning well!
Him they trouble and repel,
Us they comfort and allure,
And happy it were, if our delight
Were as great as his affright!
Yea, music is the Prophets' art;
Among the gifts that God hath sent,
One of the most magnificent!
It calms the agitated heart;
Temptations, evil thoughts, and all
The passions that disturb the soul,
Are quelled by its divine control,
As the Evil Spirit fled from Saul,
And his distemper was allayed,
When David took his harp and played.

This world may full of devils be,
All ready to devour us;
Yet not so sore afraid are we,
They shall not overpower us.

This World's Prince, howe'er
Fierce he may appear,
He can harm us not,

He is doomed, God wot! One little word can slay him! Incredible it seems to some And to myself a mystery,

That such weak flesh and blood as we, Armed with no other shield or sword, Or other weapon than the Word, Should combat and should overcome, A spirit powerful as he!

He summons forth the Pope of Rome With all his diabolic crew,

His shorn and shaven retinue

Of priests and children of the dark;
Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch,
Who rouseth up all Christendom
Against us; and at one fell blow
Seeks the whole Church to overthrow!
Not yet; my hour is not yet come.

Yesterday in an idle mood,
Hunting with others in the wood,
I did not pass the hours in vain,
For in the very heart of all
The joyous tumult raised around,
Shouting of men, and baying of hound,
And the bugle's blithe and cheery call,
And echoes answering back again,
From crags of the distant mountain chain, -