He sweetly smiled upon the boy,—
Thinking upon his simple joy,-

To explain the truth he straight began,
Sudden, the child became a man,
Of beauteous form, of holy face,
An Angel with celestial grace,
Grave-tender, lustrous-shining eyes,
True denizen of Paradise!

The evening bell his slumber broke,
And with a start Augustine woke.

Humbly kneeling on the floor,
With meeker spirit than before,
A heartfelt prayer he softly sighed
For God's forgiveness on his pride.
Resolved henceforth alway to ask
His blessing on each daily task.
And never on himself rely,
But ever to look up on high;

Nor think that man, while here below,
Can Heaven's hidden myst'ries know.
By Faith drawn nearer to the skies,
By trusting Faith to God to rise.

JOHN A. JENNINGS.

MY CHILD.

I can not make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;

Yet when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlour floor,

And through the open door

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair:

I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call,

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I tread the crowded street:

A satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair;

And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin-lid,

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair:
My hand that marble felt,

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!

When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When, at the cool, grey break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air,

My soul goes up with joy

To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

When, at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked-he is not there!

He lives! In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair:

In dreams, I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there!

JOHN PIERPOINT.

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled !"

That is what the Vision said.

In his chamber all alone,

Kneeling on the floor of stone,

Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendour brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the Blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about him,
Like a garment round him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,

Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;

But as in the village street,

In the house or harvest-field,

Halt and lame and blind he healed,
When he walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring.

Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,

Who am I, that thus thou deignest

To reveal thyself to me?

Who am I, that from the centre
Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistent iteration

He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy

Of divinest self-surrender,

Saw the Vision and the Splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;

Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight his visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?