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Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the

oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless

prairie.

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the

eyes

of
man,

who had ceased to marvel and worship, Cave when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that

temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Uphare

sin.

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire

flies, Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved ! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach

me ?

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands

around me! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy

slumbers ! When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about

thee?" Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill

sounded Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighbor

ing thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. “Patience!” wbispered the oaks from oracular caverns of

darkness; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-mor

row!"

Longfellow : Evangeline.

18.

Is there for honest poverty

That hings his head, an'a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by –

We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an'a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man 's the gowd 1 for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin grey,' an'a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine.

A man 's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an'a' that,

Their tinsel show, an'a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie 8 ca’d “

a lord,”
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof - for a' that.
For a'that, an'a' that,

His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,

He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an' a' that!
But an honest man 's aboon his might -

Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! 5
For a' that, an'a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth

Are higher rank than a' that. 1 Gold. 2 Coarse gray woolen. 8 A conceited fellow. 4 A dullard,

5 “The power of making an honest man, as a belted knight is made, is & power no king can be allowed to claim."

Then let us pray

that come

it

may
(As come it will for a' that)
That sense and worth o'er a’ the earth

Shall bear the gree1 an' a' that!
For a' that, an'a' that,

It's comin' yet for a' that,
That man to man the world o’er
Shall brithers ? be for a' that.

Burns: For A' That and A' That.

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I Have the first place.

2 Brotherg.

Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field,
Halt and lame and blind He healed,
When He walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,
Hands
upon

his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I, that thus Thou deignest
To reveal Thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre
Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be ?

Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistent iteration
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knee,
Wrapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the Vision and the Splendor.

Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;

Should he go or should he stay ?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight this visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate ?
Would the Vision there remain ?
Would the Vision come again ?
Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear
As if to the outward ear:
“ Do thy duty; that is best ;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!

Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the Blessed Vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close,
And of feet that pass them by ;
Grown familar with disfavor,
Grown familiar with the savor
Of the bread by which men die !
But to-day, they knew not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine
Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,

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