Millions of pilgrims throng these roads,
Bearing their baubles or their loads
Down to eternal night.
One humble path that never bends,
Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends
From darkness into light.
Is there no guide to show that path?
The Bible-he alone who hath
The Bible need not stray.
But he who hath and will not give
That light of life to all who live,
Himself shall lose the way.
THE GARDEN.
I HAD & Garden when a child;
I kept it all in order;
"T was full of flowers as it could be,
And London-pride was its border.
And soon as came the pleasant Spring,
The singing birds built in it;
The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock,
The Woodlark and the Linnet.
And all within my Garden ran
A labyrinth-walk so mazy;
In the middle there grew a yellow Rose;
At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.
I had a tree of Southern Wood,
And two of bright Mezereon;
A Poeny root, a snow-white Phlox,
And a branch of red Valerian;
A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose;
A Broom, and a Tiger-lily;
And I walk'd a dozen miles to find
The true wild Daffodilly.
I had Columbines, both pink and blue,
And Thalictrum like a feather;
And the bright Goat's-beard, that shuts its leaves
Before a change of weather.
I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers,
And Pinks all Pinks exceeding;
I'd a noble root of Love-in-a-mist,
And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.
I'd Jacob's Ladder, Aaron's Rod,
And the Peacock-Gentianella;
I had Asters more than I can tell,
And Lupins blue and yellow.
I set a grain of Indian Corn,
One day in an idle humour,
And the grain sprung up six feet or more,
My glory for a summer.
I found far off in the pleasant fields,
More flowers than I can mention;
I found the English Asphodel,
And the spring and autumn Gentian.
I found the Orchis, fly and bee,
And the Cistus of the mountain;
And the Money-wort, and the Adder's tongue, Beside an old wood fountain.
I found within another wood,
The rare Pyrola blowing:
For wherever there was a curious flower
I was sure to find it growing.
I set them in my garden beds,
Those beds I loved so dearly,
Where I labour'd after set of sun,
And in summer mornings early.
O my pleasant garden-plot!—
A shrubbery was beside it,
And an old and mossy Apple-tree,
With a woodbine wreathed to hide it.
There was a bower in my garden-plot,
A Spirea grew before it;
Behind it was a Laburnum tree,
And a wild Hop clamber'd o'er it.
Oft-times I sat within my bower,
Like a king in all his glory;
Oft-times I read, and read for hours,
Some pleasant wondrous story.
I read of Gardens in old times,
Old, stately Gardens, kingly,
Where people walk'd in gorgeous crowds,
Or for silent musing, singly.
I raised up visions in my brain,
The noblest and the fairest;
Garden best,
And thought it far the rarest.
And all among my flowers I walk'd,
Like a miser 'mid his treasure ;
For the pleasant plot of Garden ground
Was a world of endless pleasure.
THE TRUE STORY OF WEB-SPINNER.
WEB-SPINNER was a miser old,
Who came of low degree;
His body was large, his legs were thin,
And he kept bad company;
And his visage had the evil look
Of a black felon grim;
To all the country he was known,
But none spoke well of him.
His house was seven stories high,
In a corner of the street,
And it always had a dirty look,
When other homes were neat;
Up in his garret dark he lived,
And from the windows high
Look'd out in the dusky evening
Upon the passers by.
Most people thought he lived alone;
Yet many have averr'd,
That dismal cries from out his house
Were often loudly heard;
And that none living left his gate,
Although a few went in,
For he seized the very beggar old,
And stripp'd him to the skin;
And though he pray'd for mercy,
Yet mercy ne'er was shown-
The miser cut his body up,
And pick'd him bone from bone.
Thus people said, and all believed
The dismal story true;
As it was told to me, in truth,
I tell it so to you.
There was an ancient widow-
One Madgy, de la Moth,
A stranger to the man, or she
Had not gone there in troth;
But she was poor, and wander'd out
At nightfall in the street,
To beg from rich men's tables
Dry scraps of broken meat.
So she knock'd at old Web-Spinner's door,
With a modest tap, and low,
And down stairs came he speedily,
Like an arrow from a bow.
"Walk in, walk in, mother!" said he,
And shut the door behind-
She thought for such a gentleman,
That he was wondrous kind;
But ere the midnight clock had toll'd,
Like a tiger of the wood,
He had eaten the flesh from off her bones,
And drank of her heart's blood!
Now after this fell deed was done,
A little season's space,
The burly Baron of Bluebottle
Was riding from the chase:
The sport was dull, the day was hot,
The sun was sinking down,
When wearily the Baron rode
Into the dusty town.
Says he, "I'll ask a lodging
At the first house I come to;"
With that the gate of Web-Spinner
Came suddenly in view;
Loud was the knock the Baron gave
Down came the churl with glee,
Says Bluebottle, “Good sir, to-night
I ask your courtesy;
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