THE CAPTIVE LAMB.

It was a sight to be forgot
When Nature's night shall come;

A sound to be remembered not

When music shall be dumb.

For there are tones that will not share The fate of the forgotten air,

But haunt with ceaseless hum; And there are scenes that fail to quit The eye, till tears have blinded it.

Mine eye and ear of hue and sound
A quickened sense retain;
Echo and shade alike are found
Self-stored within my brain :
Yet is there one peculiar sense,
That holds impressions most intense
Of parted bliss or pain,

And long will there in memory dwell,

Fond inmates of its honied cell.

The sun was wasting through the day,

Above a scene as fair

As ever tempted glance to stay,

And end its wanderings there.
The clear expanse on high was calm,
As though the day dissolved in balm
Upon the healthful air,

To heal the wounds of scattered flowers,
Wind-stricken by the wintry hours.

Voices, of insect and of bird,

Their hymns to Heaven addressed,

But chief the summoning chimes were heard
That cheer the fervent breast;
The sun seemed one large amulet
Of love-the day benignly set
Apart for prayer and rest;

As God himself thereon did cease
From labour, hallowing it with peace.

Lo, at each chime, with sober pace
Approached a thoughtful throng;
Virgins, with flushed but placid face,
There grandsires led along.

From many a sunny winding came
The poor and proud, the swift, the lame,

The sickly and the strong;

In bands of mingled sex and size,
The fair, the simple, and the wise.

Far other sight anon was mine,

Far other sounds than those
That called the pilgrim to a shrine,
The mourner from his woes.
For, parted from the holy fane

By graves wherein the wept and vain

Lay wrapt in green repose,

There gleamed just o'er the nettle's head A low undecorated shed.

Mean and uncouth such place appeared Amid the landscape wide;

Perchance its humble walls were reared To shame what shone beside— Heaven's temple, banner-graced and gilt, Unlike the simple altars built

Ere earth was trod by Pride.

Whate'er its use, its narrow span,

Unwindowed, was not meant for man.

For man, the cheerful hall or hut

May show what time hath done; Whilst spirits glad as his are shut

From freedom and the sun.

Ah! never did a manly limb
Repose in spot so damp and dim

Since sands were taught to run;
Yet something, lost to Nature's race,
Was living in that tomb-like place.

A moan, scarce stifled, long and low,
Betrayed the deepening dart
Of thraldom in that haunt of woe,

And smote upon my heart.
Not answerless: for on my cheek
A paler pity seemed to speak,

In language lost to art,

Even unto Heaven for that which tried To hush the grief it could not hide.

I paused-to hear mine inmost sense The moan reverberate ;

I trod the nettles from the fence,

And shook the fastened gate.

At last a worm-worn cleft I found:
Within, upon the grassless ground,
There lay-as desolate

As aught that ever missed its dam-
A lone, and meek, and captive Lamb.

The scene was touching to behold,
For glancing round about,
Within all seemed so dark and cold,
So bright and warm without.
A little Lamb! untimely caught,
Untimely sold, and thither brought !
Condemned at first, no doubt,

('Tis said to be the will divine)

To die in pangs, that man may dine.

And as it lay with eye half closed,
And fleece all earth-defiled,
So pent-up, yet to ills exposed,
And helpless like a child :
What marvel if my fancy deemed

That lonely Lamb a thing that dreamed
Of spots and seasons mild!

Of meadows far away, and brooks
That mirrored its first peaceful looks!

Even as I gazed the captive stirred;
And though no chain was seen,
I thought the sigh my hushed ear heard
A fetter's clank had been.

It rose, and stood beneath a ray

That through the roof had found its way,

Then sought with steps serene

The gate; and through a time-worked space Streamed the full meekness of its face.

And all around its eyes were cast

Most mutely eloquent ;

Till on the moss they fixed, at last,

That decked a monument.

Then glancing on each warm green spot,

With all its gambols unforgot,

Back to its bed it went ;

There dreaming still of field and flood

To wait till men should shed its blood.