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And little Jack by fondest wile
But by the empty basket sat,
And sadder day-it once had seemed
And known whose heart was bleeding if
But saddest far when, sent to school,
But at all other boyish woes
The old man smiled; and sighed
E'en Westminster had precious grown,*
When, honour-crowned, he home returned
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
Now superseded; but it long
First place with scholars took.
He'd thought that very afternoon
And then-unnoticed from his knee
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,
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!
With his hands he clasped his face,
Christabel, as wife, beside him ;
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;
'Patience! for the time draws near
And our son awaits you there,
Think not that our lot was hard;
God knew best; I am content;
Or-O husband, could it be?
With his hands he clasped his face,
Had grown more than he could bear;
Lay upon an earthly son
Made of human flesh and blood.
She had vanished, or he waked,
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,
And for this he set his face,
But old Betty caught the stir,
Sure! when now 'tis almost night;
I must say you wanted him ;
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,
So you need not anxious be.'
Thus he reached the sunken mound,
Threescore years and twelve ago!
All her mother prayers out-prayed,
'Neath St. Lois' chancel-shade.
So he clasped his hands upon
Lichened stone for mother's knee;
But was never childhood's prayer
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;
And lo! upon the sunken grave
Last look! Behold, the dank drear leaves
A robin, on the lichened stone,
The mourner's heart in tune with him,
Homeward he turned to speak kind words
And when his frugal meal was brought,
And so she gently knocked before
And, knock unanswered, turned the lock
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 more pierced brow adorn!
A. C. D.
AUNT CECILY'S MUSIC LESSONS.
PART I.-MABEL'S MUSIC-BOOK.
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