And little Jack by fondest wile
Could not be pacified,

But by the empty basket sat,
And half his heart out cried.

And sadder day-it once had seemed
The height of human woe,
When he had truant played, to find
Sure Nemesis if slow;

And known whose heart was bleeding if
She left his tears to flow.

But saddest far when, sent to school,
Justice with love seemed gone;
And Heaven above, as hearts around,
To boyish weakness stone;
E'en now he shuddered at the sights
His eyes had looked upon,
And thankful felt no bullying boys
Had ever harmed his son.

But at all other boyish woes

The old man smiled; and sighed
To have such troubles back again
With youth and friends allied!
And his thoughts strayed to wonder where
Were now Monteith and Hyde.

E'en Westminster had precious grown,*
And borne the keenest bliss,

When, honour-crowned, he home returned
To feel his mother's kiss,

And hear her whisper to herself,

'But I expected this.'

At college, too, home-lore had borne

Honours, and honour's fruit;

And school friends flocked the Senate House,

To cheer with stunning bruit:

But when his mother heard, she said,

Half smiling, 'Jack, I knew't.'

Then came the Fellowship, and then
A vastly learnèd book,

Now superseded; but it long

First place with scholars took.

He'd thought that very afternoon
One passage to o'er-look,

And then-unnoticed from his knee
The once prized volume fell—
He met on a vacation tour

His one love, Christabel!

Ah! time and place, and scenes and words, Were all remembered well.

Ten years they waited. No such thing

As married Fellows then;

And he was forty, Christabel

But twenty-seven, when

His father made him, in his turn,
Most blest of wedded men.

And to this home he brought her, his,

Just thirty years ago;

An angel in his house a space,

And then-ah! this was woe!
Just twelve months later laid beside
Her baby in the snow.

With his hands he clasped his face,
Thought no thought a little space;
Only seemed again to see

Christabel, as wife, beside him ;
Hear the soft tones full of glee

With which she had dared deride him

For his silence;-gay and free,

Unawed by the gravity

Of a youth on study spent,

Of a manhood long unbent.

Gracious, smiling, came the ghost

Of the wife so long long lost;

Seemed to take the age-chilled hand,

Warm it with her currents free;
Smoothe the brow, and clasp the neck,
Ever whisper lovingly,

'Patience! for the time draws near
When we shall together be.
Courage earth's pains, endless bliss
Over-pay exceedingly!

And our son awaits you there,
Husband more than ever dear!

Think not that our lot was hard;

God knew best; I am content;
Bow you to the Father's hand,
Humbly as at first you bent.

Or-O husband, could it be?
We did part eternally?'

With his hands he clasped his face,
Full of thought a little space;
Thought a prayer and struggle sore,
Prayer prayed daily o'er and o'er,
If scarce of late with heart and will;
For to him this life-long ill

Had grown more than he could bear;
Harder than a father should

Lay upon an earthly son

Made of human flesh and blood.
Though he had started, had he known
To this height the sin was grown.

She had vanished, or he waked,
Silent was the room again;
Slowly he unclasped his face,

And, without the window-pane,

Gazed upon the sunken mound

'Neath which lay his buried twain.

By that mound he would repeat

Word for word that prayer for grace,
For submission, pardon, faith;

And for this he set his face,
Heedless of the evening mists
Blurring objects into space.

But old Betty caught the stir,
Ceased her gossip in affright;
'Master's never going out,

Sure! when now 'tis almost night;

I must say you wanted him ;
Wait a minute, Rachel White.'

So she caught him, breathlessly,

Ere he had unlatched the gate; 'Please, Sir, Rachel White is come, Full of troubles-scarce can wait

If, Sir, you are going far

Home's so far, and it is late.'

Master smiled, and gently said,

'Give poor Rachel White some tea,

Then she will not mind, I think,
If she wait this once for me.
And I am not going far,

So you need not anxious be.'

Thus he reached the sunken mound,
'Neath which lay his wife and child;
On which, shroud-like, dank and drear
Lay the leaves of autumn piled;
O'er the stone tight clasped the hands,
As his mother taught her child,

Threescore years and twelve ago!
Long at rest had she been laid-
All her wifely duties o'er,

All her mother prayers out-prayed,
By her husband and her son

'Neath St. Lois' chancel-shade.

So he clasped his hands upon

Lichened stone for mother's knee;
Withered hands, for mother's gown,
Shelter gave to misery.

But was never childhood's prayer
Prayed with more humility.

Long wrestled he, sore bowed and bent

Above the sunken stone;

Till heart and soul joined in the cry,

'Thy Will, not mine, be done;' Then rose he, feeling wondrously

No longer left alone.

And, mid the struggle, lo! un-marked

Earth's mists had rolled away;

And, as he rose, across him fell

One golden sunset ray;
An emblem of the perfect peace
Shining to perfect day.

And lo! upon the sunken grave
Brightest that sunbeam fell;
All golden with the sunset glow
The mound o'er Christabel;
Ne'er had he seen the grave more fair,
And yet he knew it well!

Last look! Behold, the dank drear leaves
Glowed as a ruddy pall;

A robin, on the lichened stone,
Sang vigil musical;

The mourner's heart in tune with him,
Most blessed change of all.

Homeward he turned to speak kind words
To thriftless Rachel White;

And when his frugal meal was brought,
Bade Betty Franks Good night.'
'And yet my heart misgave me, Sir,
That somehow things weren't right.'

And so she gently knocked before
She really went to bed;

And, knock unanswered, turned the lock
And softly entered;

Ah me! the lone old man alone

His soul had rendered,

And his last earthly orisons.

Been prayed beside the dead.

But now that livèd out has been
The dream of that May morn,
What recks it which had found this life
The thicker set with thorn?
Unless, perchance, the brighter wreath

The more pierced brow adorn!

A. C. D.



LESSON X.-(continued.)

Ir went fairly the first time, admirably the second. As they were ending, Mabel came back to tell them tea was ready, and they followed her to the school-room immediately.

Miss Wells could not forget her surprise at Clement's style of playing the sonata, and she asked who he had studied it with.

'With no one,' he said; he had heard it at concerts often-he had heard Joachim play it.'

Miss Wells began to think the youth must be a musical genius, and

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