The steed stamped at the castle gate,
The boar-hunt sounded on the hill; Why stayed the baron from the chase, With looks so stern, and words so ill?
"Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn,
By scathe of fire and strain of cord,
How ill they speed who give dead saints
The homage due their living lord!"
They bound him on the fearful rack,
When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, He saw the light of shining robes,
And knew the face of good St. Mark.
Then sank the iron rack apart,
The cords released their cruel clasp,
The pincers, with their teeth of fire,
Fell broken from the torturer's grasp.
And lo! before the youth and saint,
Barred door and wall of stone gave way;
And up from bondage and the night
They passed to freedom and the day!
O dreaming monk! thy tale is true;-
O painter! true thy pencil's art;
In tones of hope and prophecy,
Ye whisper to my listening heart!
Unheard no burdened heart's appeal
Moans up to God's inclining ear;
Unheeded by His tender eye
Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear.
For still the Lord alone is God!
The pomp and power
Are scattered at His lightest breath,
Like chaff before the winnower's fan.
Not always shall the slave uplift
His heavy hands to Heaven in vain:
God's angel, like the good St. Mark,
Comes shining down to break his chain!
O weary ones! ye may not see
Your helpers in their downward flight;
Nor hear the sound of silver wings
Slow beating through the hush of night!
But not the less gray Dothan shone,
With sunbright watchers bending low,
That fear's dim eye beheld alone
The spear-heads of the Syrian foe.
There are, who, like the seer of old,
Can see the helpers God has sent,
And how life's rugged mountain-side
Is white with many an angel tent!
They hear the heralds whom our Lord
Sends down his pathway to prepare ;
And light, from others hidden, shines
On their high place of faith and prayer.
Let such, for earth's despairing ones,
Hopeless, yet longing to be free,
Breathe once again the prophet's prayer:
"Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see!"
NOTES.-Tintoretto, an Italian artist of great repute. Provence, a part of France.
"The fear of the Lord is a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death."-Prov. xiv. 27.
CALM on the breast of Loch Maree
A little isle reposes;
A shadow woven of the oak
And willow o'er it closes.
Within, a Druid's mound is seen,
Set round with stony warders;
A fountain, gushing through the turf,
Flows o'er its grassy borders.
And whoso bathes therein his brow,
With care or madness burning,
Feels once again his healthful thought
And sense of peace returning.
O restless heart and fevered brain,
Unquiet and unstable,
That holy well of Loch Maree
Is more than idle fable!
Life's changes vex, its discords stun,
Its glaring sunshine blindeth,
And blest is he who on his way
That fount of healing findeth.
The shadows of a humbled will
And contrite heart are o'er it;
Go read its legend-"Trust in God"-
On Faith's white stones before it.
"We have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us."-2 Cor. iv. 7.
THE servant may through his deafness err,
And blind may be God's messenger;
But the errand is sure they go upon,—
The word is spoken, the deed is done.
Was the Hebrew temple less fair and good
That Solomon bowed to gods of wood?
For his tempted heart and wandering feet,
Were the songs of David less pure and sweet?
So in light and shadow the preacher went,
God's erring and human instrument;
And the hearts of the people where he passed
Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast,
Under the spell of a voice which took
In its compass the flow of Siloa's brook,
And the mystical chime of the bells of gold
On the ephod's hem of the priest of old,-
Now the roll of thunder, and now the awe
Of the trumpet heard on the Mount of Law.
A solemn fear on the listening crowd
Fell like the shadow of a cloud.
The sailor reeling from out the ships
Whose masts stood thick in the river-slips,
Felt the jest and curse die on his lips.
Listened the fisherman rude and hard,
The calker rough from the builder's yard,
The man of the market left his load,
The teamster leaned on his bending goad,
The maiden, and youth beside her, felt
Their hearts in a closer union melt,
And saw the flowers of their love in bloom
Down the endless vistas of life to come.
Old age sat feebly brushing away
From his ears the scanty locks of gray;
And careless boyhood, living the free
Unconscious life of bird and tree,
Suddenly wakened to a sense
Of sin and its guilty consequence.
It was as if an angel's voice
Called the listeners up for their final choice;
As if a strong hand rent apart
The veils of sense from soul and heart,
Showing in light ineffable
The joys of heaven and woes of hell!
All about in the misty air
The hills seemed kneeling in silent prayer;
The rustle of leaves, the moaning sedge,
The water's lap on its gravelled edge,
The wailing pines, and, far and faint,
The wood-dove's note of sad complaint,—
To the solemn voice of the preacher lent
An undertone as of low lament;
And the rote of the sea from its sandy coast,
On the easterly wind, now heard, now lost,
Seemed the murmurous sound of the judgment host.
"Have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.”—1 Pet. iv. 8.
My old Welsh neighbour over the way
Crept slowly out in the sun of spring,
Pushed from her ears the locks of gray,
And listened to hear the robin sing.
Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped,
And, cruel in sport as boys will be,
Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped
From bough to bough in the apple-tree.
"Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard,
My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit,
And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird
Carries the water that quenches it?
"He brings cool dew in his little bill,
And lets it fall on the souls of sin :
You can see the mark on his red breast still
Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.
"My poor Brou-rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird,
Singing so sweetly from limb to limb,
Very dear to the heart of our Lord
Is he who pities the lost, like Him!"
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