I recognised the nameless agony
The terror, and the tremor, and the painThat oft before had filled and haunted me,
And now returned with threefold strength again.
The door I opened to my heavenly guest,
And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice;
And, knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best,
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.
Then with a smile that filled the house with light-
"My errand is not Death, but Life," he said;
And, ere I answered, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped.
'Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mine,
The Angel with the amaranthine wreath,
Pausing, descended; and, with voice divine,
Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom-
A shadow on those features fair and thin;
And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,
Two Angels issued, where but one went in.
All is of God! If He but wave his hand,
The mists collect, the rains fall thick and loud; Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo! He looks back from the departing cloud.
Angels of Life and Death are his;
Without His leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against His messengers to shut the door?
CHILDREN.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
COME to me, 0 ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of morning run.
your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; But in mine is the wind of autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,-
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks!
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
THE mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.
The baron beheld with a father's pride
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;
While she with her bright eyes seem'd to be
The star of the goodly company.
"I'm weary of dancing now," she cried;
"Here tarry a moment-I'll hide-I'll hide!
And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace
The clue to my secret lurking-place."
Away she ran, and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried: "Oh, where dost thou hide? I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."
They sought her that night, and they sought her next day!
And they sought her in vain when a week pass'd away!
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly-but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."
At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle. They raised the lid—
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there,
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
Oh! sad was her fate !-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!—and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasp'd in her living tomb!
OH! say what is that thing called Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
What are the blessings of the sight-
Oh, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm; but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But, sure, with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
HENRY was every morning fed
With a full mess of milk and bread
One day the boy his breakfast took,
And ate it by a purling brook.
His mother lets him have his way.
With free leave Henry every day
Thither repairs, until she heard
Him talking of a fine gray bird.
This pretty bird, he said, indeed,
Came every day with him to feed;
And it loved him and loved his milk,
And it was smooth and soft like silk.
On the next morn she follows Harry,
And carefully she sees him carry
Through the long grass his heap'd-up mess.
What was her terror and distress
When she saw the infant take
His bread and milk close to a snake!
Upon the grass he spreads his feast,
And sits down by his frightful guest,
Who had waited for the treat;
And now they both began to eat.
Fond mother! shriek not! Oh, beware
The least small noise; oh, have a care-
The least small noise that may be made
The wily snake will be afraid.
If he hear the slightest sound,
He will inflict th' envenom'd wound.
She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe, As she stands the trees beneath.
No sound she utters; and she soon
Sees the child lift up his spoon,
And tap the snake upon the head,
Fearless of harm; and then he said,
As speaking to familiar mate,
"Keep on your own side, do, Gray Pate;
The snake then to the other side,
As one rebuked seems to glide;
And now again advancing nigh,
Again she hears the infant cry,
Tapping the snake, "Keep further, do;
Mind, Gray Pate, what I say to you."
The danger's o'er! she sees the boy
(Oh, what a change from fear to joy!)
Rise and bid the snake "Good-bye;"
Says he: "Our breakfast's done and I
Will come again to-morrow day;"
Then, lightly tripping, ran away.
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