At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more
  The Temple’s porches, searched in vain before;
  They found him seated with the ancient men,—­
  The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,—­
  Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near,
  Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear,
  Lost In half-envious wonder and surprise
  That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. 
      And Mary said,—­as one who, tried too long,
  Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong.—­
  “What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? 
  Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son!”
  Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone,—­
  Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown;
  Then turned with them and left the holy hill,
  To all their mild commands obedient still. 
      The tale was told to Nazareth’s sober men,
  And Nazareth’s matrons told it oft again;
  The maids retold it at the fountain’s side;
  The youthful shepherds doubted or denied;
  It passed around among the listening friends,
  With all that fancy adds and fiction lends,
  Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown
  Of Joseph’s son, who talked the Rabbies down. 
      But Mary, faithful to its lightest word,
  Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard,
  Till the dread morning rent the Temple’s veil,
  And shuddering Earth confirmed the wondrous tale.

  Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall;
  A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.

* * * * *

=_Willis Gaylord Clark, 1810-1841._= (Manual, pp. 503, 523.)

From his “Literary Remains.”

=_380._= AN INVITATION TO EARLY PIETY.

  Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing—­
    Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die;
  Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing,
    Fade like the sunset of a summer sky;
  Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,
    Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;
  O, touch the sceptre—­win a hope in heaven—­
    Come—­turn thy spirit from the world away.

  Then will the crosses of this brief existence,
    Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;
  And shining brightly in the forward distance,
    Will of thy patient race appear the goal;
  Home of the weary! where in peace reposing,
    The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,
  Though o’er its dust the curtained grave is closing—­
    Who would not early choose a lot like this?

* * * * *

=_James Russell Lowell, 1819-._= (Manual, p. 520.)

From his “Miscellaneous Poems,” &c.

=_381._= A SONG.

      Violet! sweet violet! 
      Thine eyes are full of tears;
          Are they wet
          Even yet,
  With the thought of other years? 
  Or with gladness are they full,
  For the night so beautiful,
  And longing for those far-off spheres?