"The old order changeth, yielding place to new, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. I have lived my life, and that which I have done Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan, That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had winked and threatened darkness, flared and fell; At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but we Sat rapt it was the tone with which he read Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeemed it from the charge of nothingness Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; I know not: but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud: as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: There now - that's nothing!" drew a little back, And drove his heel into the smouldered log, That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seemed To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated "Come again, and thrice as fair;" And, further inland, voices echoed - "Come With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR THE PICTURES. Tis morning is the morning of the day My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summed up and closed in little ; - Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit—oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 66 ""T is not your work, but Love's. Love unperceived. A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes More black than ashbuds in the front of March." Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite |