One night the moon escaped from clouds, and with a pale light

gleam'd

Over the sea, which felt the glow, and murmur'd as it dream'd;
Her bright boy cradled at her feet, her baby on her breast,
She sung her evening cradle song, and hush'd the pair to rest.

Awhile the elder child still drows'd, and like a drove in June,
Cooed from his little drowsy nest unto his mother's tune,
A ship that bore a foreign flag rode calmly with the tide,
And dropp'd its anchor in the port, by the fair city's side.

Before the mother's voice had ceased its chanting, fond and sweet,
A distant footstep echoed through the silence of the street;
And when the boy's blue dreamy eyes sought for her face no more,
A shadow fleck'd the window panes, and paused without the door.

A shadow of a human form, but oh, so white and wan!
As if the strong vitality of manhood must be gone;

Then came a low breathed, tender voice, it only murmured "WIFE!"
And heart to heart the two were clasp'd, called back to new glad life.

For hours they hardly spoke a word, but shedding blessed tears, Pour'd out their prayers of thankfulness to One who always hears; Those tears fell on their sleeping babes. O children, ye receive Such pure baptismal rite as Church or Priesthood ne'er can give.

(165.) A GREYPORT LEGEND. [1797.]

They ran through the streets of the sea-port town;
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay:
The cold sea-fog that came whitening down

Was never as cold or white as they.

“Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney, and Tenterden !
Run for your shallops, gather your men,

Scatter your boats in the lower bay."

Good cause for fear! In the thick midday
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings, and drifted clear,—

Drifted clear beyond the reach or call,—
Thirteen children they were in all,—

All adrift in the lower bay!

Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all!
She will not float till the turning tide!"
Said his wife, “My darling will hear my call
Whether in sea or heaven she bide."

And she lifted a quavering voice and high,
Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry,

Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.
The fog drove down on each labouring crew,
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore:
There was not a sound but the breath they drew,
And the lap of water and creak of oar:

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown
O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone,

But not from the lips that had gone before.

They come no more. But they tell the tale,
That, when fogs are thick on the harbour reef,
The mackerel fishers shorten sail;

For the signal they know will bring relief:
For the voices of children, still at play
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway
Through channels whose waters never fail.

It is but a foolish shipman's tale,

A theme for a poet's idle page:

But still when the mists of doubt prevail,

And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age,

(181)

We hear from the misty troubled shore
The voice of the children gone before,
Drawing the soul to its anchorage.—Bret Harte.

(166.) FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light

Dance upon the parlour wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

G

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,

By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!-Longfellow

(167.) THE PIN.

Only a pin, yet it calmly lay

On the tufted floor in the light of day;
And it shone serenely fair and bright,
Reflecting back the noonday light.

Only a boy, yet he saw that pin,
And his face assumed a fiendish grin;
He stooped for a while, with look intent,
Till he and the pin alike were bent.

Only a chair, but upon its seat
A well-bent pin found safe retreat;
Nor had the keenest eye discerned
That heavenward its point was turned.

Only a man; but he chanced to drop
Upon that chair; when, fizz-bang-pop!
He leaped like a cork from out a bottle,
And opened wide his valve de throttle.

Only a yell, though an honest one,
It lacked the element of fun,

And boy and man, and pin and chair

In wild confusion mingled there.--Anon.

(168.) CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.

[The Curfew was instituted in the reign of William the First. A bell was rung at sunset to give notice to the people that they were to put out their fires and candles (French, couvre feu, cover fire). The Klokans in Abo, even to the present day, traverse the towns crying, "Go to bed time." Those abroad are told to make hast home to "put out their fires." The incident here related is founded partly on fact, and has formed the subject of a drama called "Blanche Heriott."]

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden fair,
He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair;
He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and
white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

'Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,

With its walls so dark and gloomy,-walls so dark, and damp, and

cold,

"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die,

At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.

Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows—like a deadly poisoned dart;

66

Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed

tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right,

Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow; She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the Curfew--Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright

One low murmur, scarcely spoken---“Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro:
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying: "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell, And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell; See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now— And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sudden light, As she springs and grasps it firmly-“Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck below;
There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and

fro;

And the half-deaf Saxon ringing (years he had not heard the bell), And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell; Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating-" Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once

more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before