We've known a many sorrows, sweet! And often trod with trembling feet But when our sky grew dark and wild, Clouds broke to beauty as you smiled, Our hallow'd fairy-ring. Away grim Lords of Murderdom; Heaven shield our little Goshen round Dear love! Our hallow'd fairy-ring. But, come ye who the truth dare own, Come all who wear the Martyr's crown- Sweet souls a Christless world doth doom, Dear love! Our hallow'd fairy-ring. EUTHALAMIA. By JOHN LOCKE. He had those lonely habitudes of thought The meekest grace, the very breathing soul Two fountains springing in the wilderness, Received the tribute of the mingled streams. THE NIGHTINGALE'S RETURN. Extracted from Punch. Most blessed things come silently, and silently depart; Noiseless steals spring-time on the year, and comfort on the heart; And still, and light, and gentle, like a dew, the rain must be, To quicken seed in furrow and blossom upon tree. Nile has its foaming rapids, freshes from mountain snows: But where his stream breeds fruitfulness, serene and calm it flows; And when he overbrims, to cheer his banks on either side, You scarce can mark, so gradual, the swelling of his tide. The wings of angels make no stir, as they ply their works of love; But by the balm they shed around, we know them that they move. God spake not in the thunder, nor the mighty rushing blast; His utterance was in the still small voice, that came at last. So she our sweet Saint Florence, modest, and still, and calm, With no parade of martyr's cross, no pomp of martyr's palm, To the place of plague and famine, foulness, and wounds and pain, Went out upon her gracious toil, and so returns again. No shouting crowds about her path, no multitude's hot breath To feed with wind of vanity the doubtful fires of faith; When titles, pensions, orders, with random hand are shower'd, 'Tis well that, save with blessings, she still should walk undower'd. What title like her own sweet name, with the music all its own ? What order like the halo by her good deeds round her thrown? Like her own bird-all voiceless while the daylight songsters trill, Sweet singer in the darkness when all songs else are stillShe on that night of suff'ring that chill'd other hearts to stone, Came with soft step and gentle speech, yet wise and firm of tone. Think of the prayers for her, that to the praying heart came back In rain of blessings, seeming still to spring upon her track; The comfort of her graciousness to those whose road to death Was dark and doubtful, till she show'd the light of love and faith. Then leave her to the quiet she has chosen; she demands No greeting from our brazen throats and vulgar clapping hands. Leave her to the still comfort the saints know that have striven. What are our earthly honours? Her honours are in heaven. THE LONG-AGO. By R. MONCKTON MILNES. EYES, which can but ill define Memories, feeble to retrace Follow your majestic train As the heart of childhood brings O'er the scenes of Long-ago. Many a growth of pain and care, On that deep-retiring shore |