From the hideous stain, ne'er shown till now, The blood of his native land! With writhing self-abasement With his heel on Scotland trod, He would ne'er draw sword except to fight 'Tis a man too good for wasting, He is free to stay or go; Without a grasp o' the hand." Boot and spur and saddle, But the game had stol'n away And ne'er has he grasped an English hand "No news of him?" Well, somewhat- A very good deed (to deny it, At my time of life, what use?) He is now the old King of Scotland, And they call him Robert Bruce. THE WEAVER. A weaver sat by the side of his loom A-flinging the shuttle fast, And a thread that would last till the hour of doom Was added at every cast. His warp had been by the angels spun, Like threads which the morning upbraids from the sun, And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours, But something there came slow stealing by, And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly; And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain Where the flowers had fallen away. But still the weaver kept weaving on, Tho' the fabric all was gray; And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone, And the gold threads cankered lay. And dark, and still darker, and darker grew Each newly woven thread, And some were of a death-mocking hue, And some of a bloody red. And things all strange were woven in, Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears, And the web was broken, and poor, and thin, And the weaver fain would have flung it aside, So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied And as he wove, and weeping still wove, A tempter stole him nigh; And with glowing words he to win him strove, He upward turned his eye to heaven, And still wove on-on-on! Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven, Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed, And gathering close the folds of his shroud, And after, I saw, in a robe of light, The weaver in the sky; The angels' wings were not more bright, And the stars grew pale, it nigh. And I saw mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers That beneath his touch had sprung, More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours, And wherever a tear had fallen down And jewels befitting a monarch's crown And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh Was left a rich perfume, And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom. And then I prayed: "When my last work is done, Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one THE PASTOR'S REVERIE. From Harper's Magazine. The pastor sits in his easy chair, With the Bible upon his knee. From gold to purple the clouds in the west The shadows lie in the valleys below, And hide in the curtain's fold, And the page grows dim whereon he reads, "I remember the days of old." "Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are; No day that is gone was shadowless, No night was without its star; But mingled bitter and sweet hath been The portion of his cup: "The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, "In love hath bound us up." Fleet flies his thought over many a field Of stubble and snow and bloom, And now it trips through a festival, And now it halts at a tomb; Young faces smile in his reverie Of those that are young no more, He thinks of the day when first, with fear To speak in the sacred place the Word He walks again to the house of God, With the voice of joy and praise, With many whose feet long time have pressed Heaven's safe and blessed ways. He enters again the homes of toil, He stands in the shop of the artisan, He sits, where the Master sat, At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast. But who to-day are the poor, And who are the rich? Ask Him who keeps Once more the green and the grove resound He hears their shout at the Christmas tide, Once more he lists while the camp fire roars And the solemn words are said that seal Anon at the font he meets once more With a white-robed cherub crowing response By the couch of pain he kneels again; Again the thin hand lies Cold in his palm, while the last far look And now the burden of hearts that break The widow's woe and the orphan's cry, So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad, So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float For the pastor has learned what meaneth the Word "Rejoice with them that do rejoice, And weep with them that weep." It is not in vain that he has trod This lowly and toilsome way, In the vineyard all the day; For the soul that gives is the soul that lives, And bearing another's load Doth lighten your own, and shorten the way, And brighten the homeward road |