Oh, the outward hath gone!—but, in glory and power,
The SPIRIT Surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same!

THE BROTHER OF MERCY.

IERO LUCA, known of all the town

PIERO

As the gray porter by the Pitti wall

Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,

Sick and in dolour, waited to lay down

His last sad burden, and beside his mat

The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,
Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;
Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted
Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,
In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life;
But when at last came upward from the street
Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,
The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,
Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.
And the monk said-""Tis but the Brotherhood
Of Mercy going on some errand good:
Their black masks by the palace wall I see."
PIERO answered faintly-"Woe is me!
This day for the first time in forty years
In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,
Calling me with my brethren of the mask,
Beggar and prince alike, to some new task

Of love or pity-haply from the street
To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet
Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain,
To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors,

Down the long twilight of the corridors,
Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.

I loved the work: it was its own reward. I never counted on it to offset

My sins, which are many, or make less

To the free grace and mercy of our LORD;

But somehow, father, it has come to be

In these long years so much a part of me,

I should not know myself if lacking it,

But with the work the worker too would die,
And in my place some other self would sit
Joyful or sad-what matters, if not I?
And now all's over.

Woe is me!"—"My son,"

The monk said, soothingly, "thy work is done;
And no more as a servant, but the guest
Of God, thou enterest thy eternal rest.

No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost

Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down
Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown
Forever and forever." PIERO tossed
On his sick pillow: "Miserable me!

I am too poor for such grand company;
The crown would be too heavy for this gray
Old head; and, GOD forgive me if I say,
It would be hard to sit there night and day,
Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught

With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought,
Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.

I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,
Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head,
Scarce worth the saving if all else be dead.
And if one goes to heaven without a heart,
God knows he leaves behind his better part.
I love my fellow-men: the worst I know
I would do good to. Will death change me so
That I shall sit among the lazy saints,
Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints
Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet
Left a poor dog in the Strada hard beset,
Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less
Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness?
Methinks (LORD, pardon, if the thought be sin!)
The world of pain were better, if therein
One's heart might still be human, and desires
Of natural pity drop upon its fires

Some cooling tears."

Thereat the pale monk crossed

His brow, and muttering-" Madman! thou art lost!"
Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone,

The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan
That sank into a prayer-" Thy will be done!"

Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,

Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,
And of a voice like that of her who bore him,
Tender and most compassionate: "Be of cheer!
For heaven is love, as God himself is love:
Thy work below shall be thy work above."
And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place
He saw the shining of an angel's face!

A

LOVELY sky, a cloudless sun,

A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers, O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won,

To the cool forest's shadowy bowers;
One of the paths all round that wind,
Traced by the browsing herds, I choose,
And sights and sounds of human kind
In Nature's lone recesses lose.

The beech displays its marbled bark,

The spruce its green tent stretches wide,
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark,
The maple's scalloped dome beside :

All weave on high a verdant roof,
That keeps the very sun aloof,

Making a twilight soft and green
Within the columned, vaulted scene.

Sweet forest-odours have their birth

From the clothed boughs and teeming earth:

Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and dead,

Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern,

With many a wild flower's fairy urn,

A thick, elastic carpet spread; Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, Resolving into soil, is sunk;

There, wrenched but lately from its throne,

By some fierce whirlwind circling past, Its huge roots massed with earth and stone, One of the woodland kings is cast.

Above, the forest-tops are bright
With the broad blaze of sunny light:
But now a fitful air-grst parts

The screening branches, and a glow
Of dazzling, startling radiance darts
Down the dark stems, and breaks below
The mingled shadows off are rolled,
The sylvan floor is bathed in gold :
Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen,
Display their shades of brown and green;
Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss,
Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss;
The robin, brooding in her nest,

Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast;
And, as my shadow prints the ground,
I see the rabbit upward bound,
With pointed ears an instant look,

Then scamper to the darkest nook,

Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, He watches while I saunter by.

A narrow vista, carpeted

With rich green grass, invites my tread;

Here showers the light in golden dots,
There sleeps the shade in ebon spots,
So blended, that the very air
Seems network as I enter there.

The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum
Afar has sounded on my ear,

Ceasing his beatings as I come,

Whirrs to the sheltering branches near; The little milk-snake glides away,