Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of

gratitude;

Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech I thus renewed:

"Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy mother say,

And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix ;

What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt

By sudden pangs, what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt!

"Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favored lot is thine,

Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine ;

From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release,

Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace.

"Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness and praise,

Give to him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy most busy days;

And in his sight the fragile Cross, on thy small hut, will be

Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel of this Tree;

Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome

Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty Dome;

He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral

rites,

Yet not the less in children's hymns and lonely prayer delights.

"God for his service needeth not proud work of human skill;

They please him best who labor most to do in peace his will:

So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be

given

Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven."

The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look,

Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream,— recorded in this book,

Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind,

As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind.

But oh! that countryman of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see

A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety,

In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme,

Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream.

Alas! the dream, to thee, poor Boy! to thee from whom it flowed,

Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 't was bounteously bestowed,

If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read

Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, their fancies feed.*

XX.

THE WESTMORELAND GIRL.

TO MY GRAND CHILDREN.

PART I.

SEEK who will delight in fable,
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb
Leapt from this steep bank to follow
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam.

* See note.

Far and wide on hill and valley
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain,
And the bleating mother's Young-one
Struggled with the flood in vain :

But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden,
(Ten years scarcely had she told,)
Seeing, plunged into the torrent,
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold.

Whirled adown the rocky channel,

Sinking, rising, on they go,

Peace and rest, as seems, before them

Only in the lake below.

Oh! it was a frightful current

Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved;

Clap your hands with joy, my Hearers, Shout in triumph, both are saved;

Saved by courage that with danger
Grew, by strength the gift of love,
And belike a guardian angel
Came with succor from above.

PART II.

Now, to a maturer Audience,

Let me speak of this brave Child,

Left among her native mountains

With wild Nature to run wild.

So, unwatched by love maternal,
Mother's care no more her guide,
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan
Even while at her father's side.

Spare your blame,-remembrance makes him
Loth to rule by strict command;
Still upon his cheek are living
Touches of her infant hand, -

Dear caresses given in pity,
Sympathy that soothed his grief,
As the dying mother witnessed
To her thankful mind's relief.

Time passed on; the Child was happy,
Like a spirit of air she moved,
Wayward, yet by all who knew her
For her tender heart beloved.

Scarcely less than sacred passions,
Bred in house, in grove, and field,
Link her with the inferior creatures,
Urge her powers their rights to shield.

Anglers, bent on reckless pastime,
Learn how she can feel alike