A cry was heard, inton'd and slow,

Of one who had no wares to vend : His words were gentle, duil, and low,

And he call'd out, "Old souls to
mend!"

Fe peddled on from door to door,
And look'd not up to rich or poor.

Fis step kept on as if in pace

With some old timepiece in his head, Nor ever did its way retrace;

Nor right nor left turn'd he his tread, But utter'd still his tinker's cry To din the ears of passers-by.

So well they knew the olden note

Few heeded what the tinker spake, Though here and there an ear it smote

And seem'd a sudden hold to take; But they had not the time to stay, And it would do some other day.

Still on his way the tinker wends,

Though jobs be far between and few ; But here and there a soul he mends

And makes it look as good as new.
Once set to work, once fairly hir'd,
His dull old hammer seems inspir'd.

Over the task his features glow;

He knocks away the rusty flakes ; A spark flies off at every blow;

At every rap new life awakes. The soul once cleans'd of outward sins, His subtle handicraft begins.

Like iron unanneal'd and crude,

The soul is plunged into the blast ;

To temper it, however rude,

'Tis next in holy water cast;

Then on the anvil it receives
The nimblest stroke the tinker gives.

The tinker's task is at an end:

Stamp'd was the cross by that last blow
Again his cry, "Old souls to mend !"
Is heard in accents dull and low.
He pauses not to seek his pay, —
That too will do another day.

One stops and says, "This soul of mine
Has been a tidy piece of ware,

The little ones before the font

He clasps within his arms to bless ; For Childhood's pure and guileless front

Smiles back his own sweet gentleness. "Of such," he says, "my kingdom is, For they betray not with a kiss."

He goes to hear the vicars preach :

They do not always know his face, Him they pretend the way to teach,

And, as one absent, ask his grace. Not then his words, "Old souls to mend !" Their spirits pierce or bosoms rend.

He goes to see the priests revere

His image as he lay in death: They do not know that he is there;

They do not feel his living breath, Though to his secret they pretend With incense sweet, old souls to mend.

He goes to hear the grand debate

That makes his own religion law; But him the members, as he sate

Below the gangway, never saw. They us'd his name to serve their end, And others left old souls to mend.

Before the church-exchange he stands,

Where those who buy and sell him, meet: He sees his livings changing hands,

And shakes the dust from off his feet. Maybe his weary head he bows, While from his side fresh ichor flows.

From mitred peers he turns his face.

Where priests convok'd in session plot, He would remind them of his grace

But for his now too humble lot;
So his dull cry on ears devout
He murmurs sadly from without.

He goes where judge the law defends,
And takes the life he can't bestow,

And soul of sinner recommends

To grace above, but not below; Reserving for a fresh surprise Whom it shall meet in Paradise.

He goes to meeting, where the saint Exempts himself from deadly ire, But in a strain admir'd and quaint

Consigns all others to the fire, While of the damn'd he mocks the howl, And on the tinker drops his scowl.

Such is the Church and such the State. Both set him up and put him down, ➡ Below the houses of debate,

Above the jewels of the crown. But when "Old souls to mend !" he says, They send him off about his ways.

He is the humble, lowly one,

In coat of rusty velveteen,
Who to his daily work has gone;

In sleeves of lawn not ever seen.
No mitre on his forehead sticks :
His crown is thorny, and it pricks.

On it the dews of mercy shine;

From heaven at dawn of day they fell; And it he wears by right divine,

Like earthly kings, if truth they tell ; And up to heaven the few to send, He still cries out, "Old souls to mend !"