"No spectral omens of disaster

Affright your golden sleep.

You have a pure and virtuous wife,
Of rarest worth and purest life,
Whose ever-spotless faith to stain
Seducers might attempt in vain."

Then loured his Master's brow of gloom-
"What trumpery dost thou rave?
Shall Man on Woman's troth presume?
What shifts as shifts the wave
Soon falls the losel weedler's prey:
My trust, I trow, hath sterner stay.
Is here no gallant fop to earn

Smile from the Countess Von Savern."

Quoth Robert, "Right, my Lord!-in sooth
He should but move your scorn,
Your pity. Most audacious youth!
A thrall, a vassal born,

To lift his wanton eyes to her,

His Lady and his Fosterer ?"

"Ha!" cried the other, startled, "How?

Who? Where? What youth? How sayest thou?"

"What! Wis you not, my Lord, the tale

They babble far and nigh?

Nay, now, methinks you fain would veil

The truth. Well, so shall I."
"Man!" cried the other, "mock me not!

Speak! else I stab thee on the spot!
Who dares to think on Cunigond?"

"My Lord, that smock-faced page beyond.

In sooth he....seems....a shapely springald,"
He said with damning art,

While cold and hot the quick blood tingled

About his listener's heart.

"And marked you never, even by chance,

How she, not you, absorbs his glance,
And how he leans with love-sick air,
At table, o'er your Lady's chair?

Look! Read, my Lord, these amorous lines-
Mark how his feelings burn;

He owns the love with which he pines,
And asks a like return.

Your high-soul'd Consort, with a view
To spare him, screens his guilt from you.
....But I have idly vexed your ear,
For what, my Lord, have you to fear?"
At once into a neighboring wood
The Count in frenzy rode,
Wherein an Iron Foundry stood,
Whose furnace redly glowed.
Harsh engines brattled night and day;
The thunderous hammer stunned alway,
With sledge-blows blended, which descended
Till even the stubborn iron bended.

And beckoning there to workmen two,
He called them from their task,

And spake: "The FIRST who comes to you
From me, and thus shall ask-

'Have ye fulfilled the Count's desire?'

Him cast in yonder furnace-fire,

So that his bones be cindered white,
And he no more may blast my sight!"
To Fridolin the huntsman speeds,
And speaks with oily tone-
Companion mine, the Master needs

Thy presence: go alone!"

He went: then spake the Count, "Must waste No time, but to the Foundry haste,

And ask the furnace-men this word

'Have ye obeyed the Count, my Lord?"

Said Fridolin, "Without delay."
But pausing musefully,

Perchance, he thought, my Lady may

Have some commands for me.

Anon before the Dame he stands,

And speaks: "My Lord the Count commands

Me to the Foundry; so, if thou

Wouldst aught, I bide thy bidding now." Replied the Dame, with silvery tone

"My son lies ill, alas!

Else I to-day had gladly gone

To hear the holy Mass.

Go thou, my child, instead, and be
Thine orisons to GOD for me,

So, when thy sins are blanched by Heaven,
Mine too, I trust, may be forgiven."

The Page received with joy the glad
And ever-welcome order;

But ere with bounding step he had
Attained the village border,

Hark! toll! and toll! the Minster-bell
Pealed out with clear and solemn swell,

Inviting chosen souls to share

The Eucharistic banquet there.

"If GOD shall call thee o'er and o'er,
Resist thou not His will,"

He said, and entered at the door,
But all within was still;

For these were harvest-days, and now
Men toiled afield with sweltering brow,
Nor clerk was nigh, nor choral throng,
To serve at Mass with answering song.
Eftsoons the aisle he therefore trod,
And filled the sexton's post:
Said he, "The time we give to God

Be sure is never lost."

The stole upon the Priest he placed,

And bound the cincture round his waist,

And then prepared the water-glass

And sacred chalice-cup for Mass.

He thus accomplished all with ease,

By quick perceptive thought,

For he those hallowed usages

From childhood had been taught;

Nor tired when at the close, the Priest
Pronounced the Ite: Missa est,
And, turning round, bestowed aloud
His blessing on the assembled crowd.
Book, stole, and cup he then restored,
Each to its place anew,

And, having clean'd the altar-board,
He noiselessly withdrew,

And towards the wood, his purposed goal,
Retook his way with placid soul,

And, as his prayers were uncompleted,
Twelve Paternosters more repeated.

And reaching soon the hammerers' den,
'Mid smoke and storming fires,

He stopped and asked—“Have you, ye men,
Done what the Count desires?"

When, pointing towards the furnace wide,
And grimly grinning, one replied—
"The cindered bones require no bellows-
The Count may style us dexterous fellows!"

He bears the answer to his Master,
Who spies him with surprise,

And as he nears him, fast and faster,

Almosts mistrusts his eyes.

"Unhappy wretch! Whence comest thou? "This moment from the Foundry." "How! Thou hast been loitering, then, elsewhere?" "My Lord, I stopped for Mass and prayer

For when this morning I retired

With your command, I sought Your spouse, if haply she required

My services in aught,

Who bade me hear the Mass: content

And willing, I obeyed and went;

And thrice I said my rosary

For her and your prosperity."

The Count, amazed and quivering, gazed,

While terror blanched his cheek.

"And what reply was given thee by

The Foundry-workmen? Speak!"

Obscure, my Lord, it seemed: One showed
Me where the horrid furnace glowed,

And grinned, and thus his answer flowed-
"The cindered bones require no bellows:
The Count may style us dexterous fellows!"
"And Robert?" asked the Count-and strange
Sensations iced his blood-

"Didst thou not meet him on thy range?
I sent him to the wood."
"My Lord, in wood or mead around
No trace of Robert have I found."

"Then," cried the Count, with reverent fear,
"GOD has Himself passed judgment here!"
And yielding to a softer mood,
The unconscious Page he led
Before his spouse (who understood
The mystery not), and said—

"Be kind and bounteous tow'rds this child;
No angel is more undefiled.

THOUGH MEN MISJUDGE, CONDEMN, DISTRUST,
GOD AND HIS SAINTS WATCH O'ER THE JUST.

IN SCHOOL DAYS.

J. G. WHITTIER.

Still sits the school-house by the road, a ragged beggar sunning; Around it, still the sumachs grow, the blackberry vines are running. Within the master's desk is seen, deep-scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, the jack-knife's carved initial. The charcoal frescoes on its wall; the door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter's sun shone over it at setting,

Lit up its western window panes and low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the golden, tangled curls, and brown eyes full of griev

ing,