GEORGE MACDONALD.

BALLAD OF THE THULIAN NURSE.

FROM ALEC FORBES OF HOWGLEN.'

'SWEEP up the flure, Janet.

Put on anither peat.

It's a lown and starry nicht, Janet,

And neither cauld nor weet.

'And it's open hoose we keep the nicht

For ony that may be oot.

It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls, Whan the bodiless gang aboot.

'Set the chairs back to the wa', Janet;
Mak' ready for quaiet fowk.

Hae a' thing as clean as a win’in'-sheet :
They come na ilka ook.

'There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet;
And there's a rowan-berry:

Sweep them into the fire, Janet.
They'll be welcomer than merry.

'Syne set open the door, Janet —

Wide open for wha kens wha; As ye come benn to yer bed, Janet, Set it open to the wa'.'

She set the chairs back to the wa',

But ane made o' the birk ;

She sweepit the flure, left that ae spale,

A lang spale o' the aik.

The nicht was lowne, and the stars sat still, Aglintin' doon the sky;

And the souls crap oot o' their mooly graves,
A' dank wi' lyin' by.

She had set the door wide to the wa',
And blawn the peats rosy reed;
They war shoonless feet gaed oot and in,
Nor clampit as they gaed.

Whan midnicht cam', the mither rase

She wad gae see and hear.

Back she cam' wi' a glowerin' face,
And sloomin' wi' verra fear.

'There's ane o' them sittin' afore the fire!

Janet, gang na to see:

Ye left a chair afore the fire,

Whaur I tauld ye nae chair sud be.'

Janet she smiled in her mother's face :
She had brunt the noddin reid;
And she left aneath the birken chair
The spale frae a coffin-lid.

She rase and she gaed butt the hoose,
Aye steekin' door and door.

Three hours gaed by or her mother heard

Her fit upo' the floor.

But whan the grey cock crew, she heard

The sound o' shoonless feet;

When the red cock crew, she heard the door,
And a sough o' wind and weet.

And Janet cam' back wi' a wan face,
But never a word said she;

No man ever heard her voice lood oot,
It cam' like frae ower the sea.

And no man ever heard her lauch,

Nor yet say alas or wae;

But a smile aye glimmert on her wan face,
Like the moonlicht on the sea.

And ilka nicht 'tween the Saints and the Souls,

Wide open she set the door;

And she mendit the fire, and she left ae chair,
And that spale upo' the floor.

And at midnicht she gaed butt the hoose,

Aye steekin' door and door;

Whan the reid cock crew, she cam' benn the hoose, Aye wanner than afore—

Wanner her face, and sweeter her smile;
Till the seventh All Souls' eve.

Her mother she heard the shoonless feet,
Said She's comin', I believe.'

But she camna benn, and her mother lay;
For fear she cudna stan'.

But up she rase and benn she gaed,
Whan the gowden cock had crawn.

And Janet sat upo' the chair,

White as the day did daw;

Her smile was the sunlicht left on the sea,
Whan the sun has gone awa'.

THE SMOKE.

FROM PAUL FABER, SURGEON.'

LORD, I have laid my heart upon thy altar,

But cannot get the wood to burn;

It hardly flares ere it begins to falter,
And to the dark return.

Old sap, or night-fallen dew, has damped the fuel; In vain my breath would flame provoke;

Yet see

at every poor attempt's renewal

To thee ascends the smoke.

'T is all I have

- smoke, failure, foiled endeavor,

Coldness, and doubt, and palsied lack:

Such as I have I send thee; - perfect giver,
Send thou thy lightning back.

I DREAMED that I woke from a dream,
And the house was full of light;
At the window two angel Sorrows
Held back the curtains of night.

The door was wide, and the house
Was full of the morning wind;
At the door two armèd warders
Stood silent, with faces blind.

I ran to the open door,

For the wind of the world was sweet;
The warders with crossing weapons
Turned back my issuing feet.

I ran to the shining windows
There the wingèd Sorrows stood;
Silent they held the curtains,
And the light fell through in a flood.

I bowed my head before her,
And stood trembling in the light;
She dropped the heavy curtain,
And the house was full of night.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862.

THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE.

THE skies are pale, the trees are stiff,
The earth is dull and old;
The frost is glittering as if

The very sun were cold.

And hunger fell is joined with frost,
To make me thin and wan:

Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost;
Be born, O child of man.

The children cry, the women shake,
The strong men stare about;
They sleep when they should be awake,

They wake ere night is out.

For they have lost their heritage ·

No sweat is on their brow:

Come, babe, and bring them work and wage; Be born, and save us now.

Across the sea, beyond our sight,
Roars on the fierce debate;
The men go down in bloody fight,

The women weep and hate.

And in the right be which that may,

Surely the strife is long:

Come, Son of Man, thy righteous way

And right will have no wrong.