Then home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.
In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way-
Hobbling, with out-stretched hands and bending knees;
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!"
"Odds curse it," cried the other, " 'tis no jokeMy feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as any blubber.
"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear-
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For bless me, if I ain't lost every toe!
"But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain:
What power hath worked a wonder for your toes:
While I just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
"How is't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry, as if that naught had happened, burn ye?"
"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know.
That just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas."
GOD'S-ACRE.-H. W. LONGFellow.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude plowshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!
LOST AND FOUND.-HAMILTON AIDE.
Some miners were sinking a shaft in Wales-
I know not where, but the facts have filled
A chink in my brain, while other tales
Have been swept away, as when pearls are spilled,
One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor;
-Somewhere, then, where God's light is killed,
And men tear in the dark, at the earth's heart-core,
These men were at work, when their axes knocked
A hole in a passage closed years before.
A slip in the earth, I suppose, had blocked
This gallery suddenly up, with a heap
Of rubble, as safe as a chest is locked,
Till these men picked it; and 'gan to creep
In, on all-fours. Then a loud shout ran
Round the black roof~" Here's a man asleep!"
They all pushed forward, and scarce a span
From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the lamp Fell on the upturned face of a man.
No taint of death, no decaying damp
Had touched that fair young brow, whereon
Courage had set its glorious stamp.
Calm as a monarch upon his throne,
Lips hard clenched, no shadow of fear,
He sat there taking his rest, alone.
He must have been there for many a year.
The spirit had fled; but there was its shrine,
In clothes of a century old, or near!
The dry and embalming air of the mine
Had arrested the natural hand of decay,
Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line.
Who was he, then? No man could say
When the passage had suddenly fallen in—
Its memory, even, was pass'd away!
In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal,
They took him up, as a tender lass
Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole
To the outer world of the short warm grass.
Then up spoke one, “Let us send for Bess,
She is seventy-nine, come Martinmas;
Older than any one here, I guess!
Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there, And remember the chap by his comeliness."
So they brought old Bess with her silver hair, To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay, Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air.
And the crowd around him all gave way,
As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh,
And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay.
Then suddenly rang a sharp, low cry!
Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed
Her withered arms in the summer sky-
"O Willie! Willie! my lad! my lost!
The Lord be praised! after sixty years
I see you again! . . . . The tears you cost,
O Willie darlin', were bitter tears!
They never looked for ye underground,
They told me a tale to mock my fears!
They said ye were auver the sea-ye'd found
A lass ye loved better nor me, to explain
How ye'd a-vanished fra sight and sound!
O darlin', a long, long life o' pain
I ha' lived since then!
And now I'm old,
'Seems a'most as if youth were come back again,
Seeing ye there wi' your locks o' gold,
And limbs as straight as ashen beams,
I a'most forget how the years ha' rolled
Between us!.... O Willie! how strange it seems
To see ye here as I've seen ye oft,
Auver and auver again in dreams!"
In broken words like these, with soft
Low wails she rocked herself. And none
Of the rough men around her scoffed.
For surely a sight like this, the sun
Had rarely looked upon. Face to face,
The old dead love, and the living one!
The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace,
At the end of threescore years; the quick,
Puckered and withered, without a trace
Of its warm girl-beauty. A wizard's trick
Bringing the youth and the love that were,
Back to the eyes of the old and sick!
Those bodies were just of one age; yet there
Death, clad in youth, had been standing still,
While life had been fretting itself threadbare!
But the moment was come;-as a moment will
To all who have loved, and have parted here,
And have toiled alone up the thorny hill;
When, at the top, as their eyes see clear,
Over the mists of the vale below,
Mere specks their trials and toils appear
Beside the eternal rest they know.
Death came to old Bess that night, and gave
The welcome summons that she should go.
And now, though the rains and winds may rave,
Nothing can part them. Deep and wide,
The miners that evening dug one grave.
And there, while the summers and winters glide
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side.
There's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,-
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness,—
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
And yet, it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all,-
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,-
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air,
As if some dream were passing there,
'Tis then that on his face I look-
His beautiful but thoughtful face-
And, like a long forgotten book,
Its sweet familiar meanings trace;
Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on those golden wings,
Which time has fettered now;
Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.
'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press;
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess-
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor straining high-
How in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all!
And on its silent wing,
How, with the clouds, he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they.
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