On his sad ear fell the convent bell: A passion of love within him rose, He gazed like a dog in the Master's eyes He chid his heart and he fed the poor, Went back to be desolate. His hand on the latch, his head bent low, Sad and slow he lifted the latch The Master stood there still! He said "I have waited because my poor But the man who doeth my Father's work Yet, Lord, for thou wouldst have us judge, And I will humbly dare If the monk had stayed, I do not think Thou wouldst have left him there. I hear from the far-off blessed time "For the poor always ye have with you, G. MACDONALD. 37. TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we Into the grave. 38. ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou sat'st a queen. Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street; Leaders and sceptred men Bowed at thy feet. R. HERRICK. While night, o'er tomb and shrine, Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute's low swell On thy soft air Lingers, and loves to dwell With summer there. Thou hast the south's rich gift Of sudden song, A charmed fountain, swift, Joyous, and strong. 39. TWENTY YEARS HENCE. Twenty years hence my eyes may grow Twenty years hence, though it may hap In a cool cell where thunder-clap There breathe but o'er my arch of grass WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 40. THE SANDS OF DEE. "Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, CHAS. KINGSLEY. 41. ABOU BEN ADHEM. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) An angel writing in a book of gold: "What writest thou?" The Vision rais'd its head, And with a look made all of sweet accord, Answer'd, "the names of those who love the Lord." Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, |