Trusting remoter days would be more blessed, But best resolves are of such feeble thread, For when the chance swung wide the prisoner fled, And gained the country road, and hastened by Brown furrowed and skipping brooklets, fed By shepherd clouds, and felt through sapful trees The soft hand of the mesmerizing breeze. Then all that long day, having eaten nought, He at a cottage stopped, and of the wife A brimming bowl of fragrant milk besought; She gave it him, but as he quaffed the life, Down her kind face he saw a single tear Pursue its wet and sorrowful career. Within the cot he now beheld a man And maiden also weeping. "Speak," said he, "And tell me of your grief, for if I can, I will disroot the sad tear-fruited tree." The cotter answered, "In default of rent, We shall to-morrow from this roof be sent." Then said the galley slave, "Whoso returns A prisoner escaped, may feel the spur Bind these my arms, and drive me back my way, When stronger would have dared not to attack, And told him all the story, and that lord There is no nobler, better life on earth, Than that of conscious, meek self-sacrifice; POWER OF MUSIC. An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old; Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same, In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. His station is there, and he works on the crowd; What an eager assembly, what an empire is this; As the moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, That errand bound 'prentice was passing in haste, The porter sits down on the weight which he bore, He stands back by the wall; he abates not his din; Oh! blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height, There's a cripple who leans on his crutch, like a tɔwer That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour; A mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. Now, coaches and chariots roar on like a stream, you, Wordsworth. LITTLE CHILDREN. God bless little children, Day by day. With pure and simple wiles, And winning words and smiles, They creep into the heart; And who would wish to say them nay. They look up into our faces, And their eyes Are tender and are fair, As if still lingered there The Saviour's kindly smile; So very meek they look, and wise. We live again our play time Their soft hands lead us back The pathway of our years, Oh! when my days are ended, I would rest Where little children keep Their slumber long and deep; My grave be near the little mounds I know that God has blest. CHRISTMAS. The time draws near the birth of Christ; Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Were shut between me and the sound. Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease; This year I slept and woke with pain, |