That he, perhaps for the hundredth time
Should bound across the Strid ?
He sprang in glee-for what cared he
That the river was strong, and the rocks
were steep?
But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap!
The boy is in the arms of Wharf!
And strangled with a merciless force-
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse!
Long, long in darkness his mother sat,
And her first words were, "Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory!"
The stately Priory was reared,
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins1 joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.2
And the lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief;
But slowly did her succour come,
And patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our Friend.
1 Matins-morning prayers, as performed or chanted in Roman Catholic churches.
2 Even-song-evening service, corresponding to that of the morning.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon ;—
A mile or so away,
On a little mound Napoleon
Stood on our storming day;
With neck out-thrust you fancy how-
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans,
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall;
And 'twixt the battery smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect,-
So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through,—
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor! by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon !
The Marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed: his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye,
When her bruised eaglet breathes : "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.
THE EXAMPLE OF BIRDS.
RING-DOVE! resting benignly calm,
Tell my bosom thy secret balm;
Blackbird straining thy tuneful throat,
Teach my spirit thy thankful note;
Small Wren! building thy happy nest,
Where shall I find a home of rest?
Eagle cleaving the vaulted sky,
Teach my nature to soar as high;
Sky-lark! winging thy way to heaven,
Be thy track to my footsteps given !
SMALL service is true service, while it lasts;
Of friends, however humble, spurn not one;
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.
Wordsworth.
GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW.
Lo the lilies of the field,
How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to Nature's lesson, given
By the blessed birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy
"Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow!
"Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle, than the rose?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air?
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily ;
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow!
"One there lives whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny;
One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers, lest they fall.
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,1
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow!"
THE WORM AND THE SNAIL;
OR, BE CONTENT WITH YOUR LOT.
A LITTLE Worm, too close that played
In contact with a gardener's spade,
Lime-birdlime, a substance used by birdcatchers.
Writhing about in sudden pain,
Perceived that he was cut in twain;
His nether half left short and free,
Much doubting its identity.
However, when the shock was past,
New circling rings were formed so fast
By Nature's hand, which fails her never,
That soon he was as long as ever;
But yet the insult and the pain
This little reptile did retain,
In what, in man, is called the brain.
One fine spring evening, bright and wet,
Ere yet the April sun was set,
When slimy reptiles crawl and coil
Forth from the soft and humid soil,
He left his subterranean clay,
To move along the gravelly way;
Where suddenly his course was stopt
By something on the path that dropt;
When, with precaution and surprise,
He straight shrunk up to half his size.
That 'twas a stone was first his notion,
But soon discovering locomotion,
He recognized the coat of mail
And horny antlers of a snail,
Which some young rogue (we beg his pardon) Had flung into his neighbour's garden.
The snail, all shattered and infirm,
Deplored his fate, and told the worm :—
"Alas! says he, "I know it well,
All this is owing to my shell;
They could not send me up so high,
Describing circles in the sky,
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