THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS.

What of this? our blessèd Lord
Loved such as we;-
How he blessed the little ones
Sitting on his knee!

WHERE shall I meet thee,

Thou beautiful one? Where shall I find thee, For aye who art gone? What is the shape

To thy clear spirit given? Where is thy home

In the infinite heaven?

I see thee, but still

As thou wert upon earth, In thy bodied delight, In thy wonder and mirth!

But now thou art one

Of the glorified band Who have touched the shore Of the far spirit-land! And thy shape is fair,

And thy locks are bright, In the living stream

Of the quenchless light. And thy spirit's thought It is pure, and free From darkness and doubt

And from mystery!

And thine ears have drunk

The awful tone

Of the First and Last,

Of the Ancient One!

And the dwellers old

Thy steps have met, Where the lost is found,

And the past is yet. Where shall I find thee, For aye who art gone? Where shall I meet thee, Thou beautiful one?

THE POOR CHILD'S HYMN.

WE are poor and lowly born;
With the poor we bide;
Labour is our heritage,
Care and want beside.

What of this? our blessed Lord

Was of lowly birth,

And poor, toiling fishermen
Were his friends on earth!

We are ignorant and young;

Simple children all;

Gifted with but humble powers, And of learning small.

A DREAM.

HOAR with the lapse of ages seemed
The silent land toward which I drew,
And yet within myself I deemed
The dwellers in that land were few.
A strong conviction seemed to rest

Upon my heart that I was then
In the sole portion of the earth,
Since creation's perfect birth,

Had held the sons of men; And I was on a marvelling quest Of that small colony of the blest. How lone, how silent! not a sound

In earth or air, from wind or flood; But o'er the bare and barren ground Brooded an endless solitude.

It was an awful thing to tread

O'er grey and parched and mighty plains, Where never living thing was seen,

Where the live heart had never been:
The blood chilled in my veins,-

Yet still I felt in spirit led
Across that wilderness of dread.

But lo! that deadness of the world,
Which seemed of an eternal power,
Like a light vapour was unfurled,

And I walked over fern and flower;
Hills, robed in light celestial blue,

Bounded that amplitude of plain;
And round me there were lofty trees,
Yet moveless, soundless to the breeze;
And not a wild bird's strain,
Nor cry of beast, could still undo
The spell which silence o'er me threw.
But man was there. Not far aside,

One I beheld who strongly toiled;
He seemed a youth of solemn pride,
Of noble form, but dimmed and soiled
With rural labour and with care,

And he clove wood for sacrifice.
I listened for his sounding stroke,
There was no sound; and now the smoke
Did from the pile arise;

And he gazed on it with an air

Less marked by pleasure than despair.

But then a lovelier vision sprung

Before me; and between the tall
And shadowy trees, a low cloud hung,
So low, it scarcely hung at all;
"Twas like no cloud which sails the sky;
Around it all was clearly seen;

It mixed not with the ambient air;
Rolled on itself compact and fair,

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It rested on the scene,

More still and motionless than lie
The clouds of summer in the sky.

Beside it stood a hoary seer,

And through my heart a whisper ran,
"God, or his angel shrouded here

Holds converse with this holy man."
Dark was that cloudy dwelling-place;

No glory on it seemed to dwell;
Yet still on every thing around,
On tree, on shrub, and heathy ground,
A streaming radiance fell;
And on that patriarch's awful face
Glowed with intense, unearthly grace.
Propped on his staff, in peace he stood,
Sandaled, and girded in his vest,
And his full beard in silver flowed
Far down his pure and quiet breast;
His eye was on the cloud, as one

Who listens to momentous things,
And seems with reverence to hear,
Yet with more confidence than fear,
What some great herald brings.

But as I gazed, a little boat,

Swift, without rudder, oars, or sail,
Down through the ambient air afloat,

Bore onward one who seemed to hail
The patriarch,—and he turned his head;
He turned and saw a smiling boy,
Smiling in beauty and in youth,
With eyes in which eternal truth

Lay with eternal joy.

He touched that old man's snowy head,
And boat, youth, cloud, and patriarch fled!
A multitude of dreams ave passed"

Since this, and perished as they came;
But in my mind imprinted fast

This lives, and still remains the same. The beauty of that gliding car;

The mystery of the cloud and sage; Those plains in arid drought so stern; That solenin hush, that seemed etern; — In memory's living page, Still stand in light, more real far Than thousands of our day-dreams are!

THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.

AN OLD SEAMAN'S STORY.

PART I.

I'LL tell ye, if ye hearken now, A thing that chanced to me It must be fifty years agone Upon the southern sea.

First-mate was I of the Nancy,

A tight ship and a sound;
We had made a prosperous voyage,
And then were homeward bound.
We were sailing on the Tropic seas,
Before the trade-wind's power,
Day after day, without delay,

Full thirteen knots an hour.

The sea was as a glassy lake,

By a steady gale impressed;
There was nought for any man to do
But just what liked him best.

And yet the calm was wearisome;
The dull days idly sped;
And sometimes on a flute I played,
Or else a book I read.

And dallying thus one afternoon,
I stood upon the deck;
When far off, to the leeward,

I saw a faintish speck.

Whether 't was rock, or fish, or cloud,
At first I did not know;

So I called unto a seaman,

That he might look also.
And as it neared, I saw for sure

That it must be a boat;
But my fellow swore it was not so,
But a large bamboo afloat.

We called a third unto us then,

That he the sight might see;
Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth,
But no two could agree.
"Nay, 't is a little boat," I said,

"And it roweth with an oar!" But none of them could see it so, All differing as before.

"It cometh on;

I see it plain;
It is a boat!" I cried,
"A little boat o'erlaid with pearl,
And a little child to guide!"

And sure enough, a boat it was,
And worked with an oar;
But such a boat as 't was, no man
Had ever seen before.

Within it sate a little child,

The fairest e'er was seen; His robes were like the amethyst, His mantle of sea-green.

No covering wore he on his head,
And the hair that on it grew
Showered down in thick and wavy
Of the sunniest golden hue.

The rudest man on board our ship
Blest God that sight to see;
For me I could do nought but weep,
Such power had it on me.

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There sat he in his pretty boat,
Like an angel from the sky,
Regarding us in our great ship,
With wonder in his eye.

The little oar slid from his hand;
His sweet lips were apart;
Within my soul I felt his joy;
His wonder in my heart.
And as we tokened him to come,

His little boat he neared,

And smiled at all our friendly words,

Nor seemed the least afeared.

"Come hither a-board!" the captain said, And without fear of ill,

He sprang into the lordly ship,
With frank and free good will.

He was no son of the merman;
No syren full of guile;

But a creature like the cherubim,

From some unknown-of isle.

And strange to tell, his pleasant speech

Was English, every word;

And yet such English, sweet and pure,

As his I never heard.

His father, he said, had made his boat
From out a large sea-shell;

"And what a wondrous tale," said he,
"I shall this evening tell!"

His robes, he said, his mother had wove

From roots of an Indian-tree;

And he laughed at the clothes the seamen wore,

With the merriest mockery.

When the little child had stayed with us,
May-be an hour or so,

He smiled farewell to all on board,

And said that he would go.

"For I must be back again," said he, "For me they all will wait;

I must be back again," quoth he,

"Or ever the day be late!"

"He shall not go!" the captain said;

The captain was a strong, stern man;
None liked him overwell;
And to a seaman standing near,
Said he, with voice and look austere,

"Haul up yon cockle-shell! And you, my boy, content you, In this good ship to dwell!"

As one who gladly would believe
Some awful threat a joke,

So heard the child, with half a smile,
The words the captain spoke.

But when he saw them seize his boat, And put his oar away,

The smile was gone, and o'er his face
Quick passed a pale dismay.

And then a passion seized his frame,
As if he were possessed;

He stamped his little feet in rage,
And smote upon his breast.

"Twas a wicked deed as e'er was done

I longed to set him free;

And the impotence of his great grief
Was a grievous sight to me.

At length, when rage had spent itself,
His lofty heart gave way,
And, falling on his pretty knees,
At the captain's feet he lay.

"Oh take me back again!" he cried,
"Let me not tarry here,
And I'll give thee sea-apples,

And honey rich and clear;

"And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones
From deep sea-caves below;
And red tree-gold and coral-tree,

If thou wilt let me go!

"Or if I must abide with thee, In thy great ship to dwell, Let me but just go back again, To bid them all farewell!"

And at the word "farewell" he wept,
As if his heart would break;
The very memory of his tears

Sore sad my heart doth make.

The captain's self was almost moved
To hear his woful cry;
And there was not within the ship

One man whose eyes were dry.

When the captain saw the seamen's grief,
An angry man was he,

And shut his heart against the child,
For our great sympathy.

Down from the deck he took him

To his cabin all alone:
We saw him not for many a day,
But only heard his moan.

PART II.

It was a wicked deed, and Heaven
All wickedness doth hate;
And vengeance on the oppressor,
It cometh soon or late,-

As you will see. There something was,
Even from the very night

Whereon the captain stole the child,

On board that was not right.
From out the cabin evermore,

Where they were all alone,
We heard, oh piteous sounds to hear,
A low and quiet moan;

And now and then cries sad enough
To move a heart of stone.

The captain had a conscious look,

Like one who doeth wrong, And yet who striveth all the time

Against a conscience strong.
The seamen did not work at all

With a good will or a free;
And the ship, as she were sullen too,

Went slowly over the sea.
"Twas then the captain from below
Sent down in haste for me.

I found him lying on his bed,

Oppressed with fever-pain;
And by his death-struck face, I saw
That he would not rise again, -
That he, so lately hale and strong,
Would never rise again.

-

At length he woke from that dead woe,
Like one that long hath slept,
And cast his arms about my neck,
And long and freely wept.

I clasped him close unto my breast,
Yet knew not what to say,
To wile him from the misery
That on his spirit lay.

At length I did bethink me

Of Jesus Christ; and spake To that poor lamb of all the woe He suffered for our sake.

"For me and thee, dear child," I said,
"He suffered, and be sure
He will not lay a pang on thee
Without he give the cure!"

Like as the heavy clouds of night
Pass from the coming day,
So cleared the sullen weight of woe
From his dear soul away.

Oh happy hours of converse sweet;-
The Christian's hope he knew,
And with an eager heart he gained

That knowledge sweet and new. And ever by my side he kept, Loving, and meek, and still: But never more to him returned

His bold and wayward will:He had been tried and purified From every taint of ill.

PART III.

THE eve whereon the captain died
I turned the ship about,
And said unto the seamen good,

44 We'll find the island out."

So back unto the place we came,

Where we the child had found; And two full days with anxious watch, We sailed it all around.

And on the third, at break of day,
A far-off peak was seen;

And then the low-lands rose to view,
All woody, rich, and green.

Down on his knees the child he fell,

When the mountains came in view, And tears ran streaming from his eyes,For his own isle he knew.

And, with a wildly-piercing tone,
He cried, "Oh mother dear,
Weep not, I come, my mother!"
Long, long ere she could hear.
And soon we saw a mountain-top
Whereon a beacon burned;
Then as the good ship neared the land,
An answer was returned.

"Oh give to me my boat!" he cried,

And give to me mine oar!" Just then we saw another boat Pushed from the island-shore.

A carved boat of sandal-wood,

Its sail a silken mat,

All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes,
And three within her sat.

Down from the ship into the sea

The little boy he sprung;
And the mother gave a scream of joy,
With which the island rung.

Like some sea-creature beautiful
He swam the ocean-tide,
And ere we wondered at his skill
He clomb the shallop's side.

Next moment in his mother's arms
He lay, O sweet embrace!
Looking from her dear bosom up
Into her loving face.

The happiest and the sweetest sight
That e'er mine eyes will see,

Was the coming back of this poor child
Unto his family!

-Now wot ye of his parentage?
Sometime I'll tell you it;
Of meaner matter many a time
Has many a book been writ.

"T would make a pleasant history
Of joy scarce touched by woe,
Of innocence and love; but now
This only must you know.
His mother was of English birth,
Well-born, and young, and fair;
In the wreck of an East-Indiaman
She had been saved there.
His father was the island's chief,
Goodly as man can be;
Adam, methinks, in Paradise
Was such a one as he.

"T is not for my weak speech to tell
The joy so sweet and good,
Of these kind, simple islanders,
Nor all their gratitude.

Whate'er the island held they gave;
Delicious fruits and wines,
Rich-tinted shells from out the sea,
And ore from out their mines.

But I might not stay; and that same day
Again we turned about,

And, with the wind that changed then

Went from the harbour out.

-"Tis joy to do an upright deed;

"Tis joy to do a kind;

And the best reward of virtuous deeds

Is the peace of one's own mind.

But a blessing great went with the ship,
And with the freight she bore ;
The pearl-shells turned to great account,
So did the island's ore;-

But I someway lost my reckoning,
Nor found the island more.

And how the child became a man,
Or what to him befel,

As I never trod the island more,
Is not for me to tell.

EASTER HYMNS.

HYMN I.

THE TWO MARYS.

Oh dark day of sorrow,
Amazement and pain;
When the promise was blighted
The given was ta'en!

When the master no longer

A refuge should prove;
And evil was stronger
Than mercy and love!

Oh dark day of sorrow,
Abasement and dread,
When the Master beloved
Was one with the dead!
We sate in our anguish
Afar off to see,
For we surely believed not
This sorrow could be!

But the trust of our spirits
Was all overthrown;
And we wept, in our anguish,
Astonished, alone!

At even they laid him
With aloes and myrrh,
In fine linen wound, in
A new sepulchre.

There, there will we seek him
Will wash him with care;
Anoint him with spices:
And mourn for him there

Oh strangest of sorrow!
Oh vision of fear!
New grief is around us -
The Lord is not here!

HYMN II.

THE ANGEL

Women, why shrink ye
With wonder and dread?.
Seek not the living
Where slumbers the dead!