The snow a treachrous smoothness spread The monk that left his walls that day For not a trace was left to show But there was one, I marvel why, Perhaps he sought the convent's cell, With penance and remorse, To heal a bosom deeply sear'd Or perhaps mankind had done him wrong, I know not-for 'tis not of him But sure it is, for many an hour And many an hour he had not known And if the convent bell had rung And should the morning light disclose Its towers amid the snow, To him 'twas but a mournful sight- If he believed in spirits unseen That haunt the midnight gloom, He might expect their magic aid, Where mortal could not come. Or if, deceiv'd by monkish lore, But likelier, he had told his beads, For few, in such a case, had thought Valour could arm no mortal man But obedience to a master's will And if it be too much to say For now he listens-and anon He scents the distant breezeAnd casts a keen and anxious look On every speck he sees. And now deceiv'd, he darts along, Then disappointed, drops his head With more than human care. He never loiters by the way, Nor lays him down to rest; And surely 'tis not less than joy He stops, as if he thought the bliss And holds his breath, as one might do 'Tis surely he-he saw him move, And at the joyful sight, He toss'd his head with a prouder air, His fierce eye grew more bright. Eager emotion swell'd his breast, To tell his generous tale And he raised his voice to its wildest tone, To bid the wanderer hail. That voice was rescue from the grasp To the winds his parting breath— 'Twas hope to him from whom despair The latest hope had riven 'Twas a friend, when he might scarce expect A friend from earth or heaven. And surely 'twas the sweetest sound The heart might almost burst with joy The pilgrim heard-he rais'd his head, His eye was dimm'd, his voice was still, But his heart, though it ceased to throb with joy, For round his willing neck he bare A store of needful food, That might support the traveller's strength On the yet remaining road. Enough of parting life remain'd One painful, dying effort more So he heeded not his aching wound, HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREATIONS. THE ANCHOR. A MARINER at eventide Pushed his light boat from the land— I saw him pass the boiling surge And fix his anchor in the sand. Then blithe returning to the shore How could he trust so frail a thing Would rend his feeble bark in twain? Because through many a rougher night So in darkness and in light, Christians know their anchor strong. So with hearts to heaven devoted, LE COLIMACON. SANS amis, comme sans famille, Se retirer dans sa coquille Au signal du moindre danger; Pour faire à son prochain les cornes; Et celle du Colimaçon. THE BLOSSOM. SAID Anna to Jane, as they loiter'd one day In the year's early spring by the garden hedge side, "Those bright, blushing flowers on yonder tall tree "Are the fairest and sweetest I ever espied. |