When all at once a cry of sharp distress Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;And, looking from the convent window high, He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore, Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.
The friar's heart with deep compassion stirred, When the poor wretch's groans for help were heard With gentle hands, and touched with love divine, He bathed his wounds, and poured in oil and wine.
With tender foresight cared for all his needs,--A blessed ministry of noble deeds.
In such devotion passed seven days. At length The poor wayfarer gained his wonted strength.
With grateful thanks he left the convent walls, And once again on death Anselmo calls.
When, lo! his cell was filled with sudden light, And on the wall he saw an angel write, (An angel in whose likeness he could trace, More noble grown, the traveller's form and face), "Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great, God grants thee life that thou may'st expiate.
"Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again, By noble service done thy fellow-men.
"His soul draws nearest unto God above, Who to his brother ministers in love."Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer, His soul was lightened of its past despair.
Henceforth he strove, obeying God's high will, His heaven-appointed mission to fulfil.
And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief, Owed to the friar solace and relief.
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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THE CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
One autumn day, when hedges yet were green, And thick-branched trees diffused a leafy gloom, Hard by where Avon rolls its silvery tide, I stood in silent thought by Shakspeare's tomb.
O happy church, beneath whose marble floor His ashes lie who so enriched mankind;The many-sided Shakespeare, rare of soul, And dowered with an all-embracing mind.
Through the stained windows rays of sunshine fall In softened glory on the chancel floor;While I, a pilgrim from across the sea, stand with bare head in reverential awe.
Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults Repose the bones of those that once were kings;Their power has passed, and what remains but clay?
While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.
Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,--Faint shadows they without his plastic art,--He waves his wand, and lo! they live again, And in his world perform their mimic part.
Born in the purple, his imperial soul Sits crowned and sceptred in the realms of mind.
Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay, Time but confirms his empire o'er mankind.
MRS. BROWNING'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.
FLORENCE wears an added grace, All her earlier honors crowning;Dante's birthplace, Art's fair home, Holds the dust of Barrett Browning.
Guardian of the noble dead That beneath thy soil lie sleeping, England, with full heart, commends This new treasure to thy keeping.
Take her, she is half thine own;
In her verses' rich outpouring, Breathes the warm Italian heart, Yearning for the land's restoring.
From thy skies her poet-heart Caught a fresher inspiration, And her soul obtained new strength, With her bodily translation.
Freely take what thou hast given, Less her verses' rhythmic beauty, Than the stirring notes that called Trumpet-like thy sons to duty.
Rarest of exotic flowers In thy native chaplet twining, To the temple of thy great Add her--she is worth enshrining.
MY CASTLE.
I have a beautiful castle, With towers and battlements fair;And many a banner, with gay device, Floats in the outer air.
The walls are of solid silver;
The towers are of massive gold;
And the lights that stream from the windows A royal scene unfold.
Ah! could you but enter my castle With its pomp of regal sheen, You would say that it far surpasses The palace of Aladeen.
Could you but enter as I do, And pace through the vaulted hall, And mark the stately columns, And the pictures on the wall;With the costly gems about them, That send their light afar, With a chaste and softened splendor Like the light of a distant star!
And where is this wonderful castle, With its rich emblazonings, Whose pomp so far surpasses The homes of the greatest kings?
Come out with me at morning And lie in the meadow-grass, And lift your eyes to the ether blue, And you will see it pass.
There! can you not see the battlements;
And the turrets stately and high, Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds, And lost in the arching sky?
Dear friend, you are only dreaming, Your castle so stately and fair Is only a fanciful structure,--A castle in the air.
Perchance you are right. I know not If a phantom it may be;But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel That it lives, and lives for me.
For when clouds and darkness are round me, And my heart is heavy with care, I steal me away from the noisy crowd, To dwell in my castle fair.
There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my call;
And I, with a master's air of pride, May pace through the vaulted hall.
And I envy not the monarchs With cities under their sway;For am I not, in my own right, A monarch as proud as they?
What matter, then, if to others My castle a phantom may be, Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart, That it is not so to me?
APPLE-BLOSSOMS.
I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs, In the fragrant orchard close, And around me floats the scented air, With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss, And call no king my peer;For is not this the rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?
I lie on a couch of downy grass, With delicate blossoms strewn, And I feel the throb of Nature's heart Responsive to my own.
Oh, the world is fair, and God is good, That maketh life so dear;For is not this the rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs, The delicate blue of the sky, And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints That drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain, And Heaven, it seemeth near;Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?
SUMMER HOURS.
