* * * * *

  Young Florice rose from his humble bed,
    And prayed as a good youth should;
  And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
    Into the neighboring wood;
  He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
    And where the old oak stood.

  And as he lay, at the noon of day,
    Beneath the ancient tree,
  A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way;
    A holy man was he,
  And he was wending forth to pray
    At a shrine in a far countrie.

  Oh, his was a weary wandering,
    And a song or two might cheer him. 
  The pious youth began to sing,
    As the ancient man drew near him;
  The lark was mute as he touched the string,
    And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!”

  He sand high tales of the martyred brave;
    Of the good, and pure, and just;
  Who have gone into the silent grave,
    In such deep faith and trust,
  That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save
    Spring from their buried dust.

  The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
    Meek maids, and grandsires hoary;
  Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
    As they passed to their doom of glory;—­
  Their radiant fame is never dim,
    Nor their names erased from story.

  Time spares the stone where sleep the dead
    With angels watching round them;
  The mourner’s grief is comforted,
     As he looks on the chains that bound them;
  And peace is shed on the murderer’s head,
    And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.

  Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
    In a trance of voiceless pleasure;
  For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred,
    By the sad and solemn measure: 
  “I give thee my blessing,”—­was his word;
    “It is all I have of treasure!”

* * * * *

  A little child came bounding by;
    And he, in a fragrant bower,
  Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
    Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
  Which, with fierce step, and eager eye,
    He chased from flower to flower.

  “Come hither, come hither,” ’gan Florice call;
    And the urchin left his fun;
  So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
     Retreats the baffled dun;
  So Ellen parts from the village ball,
    Where she leaves a heart half won

  Then Florice did the child caress,
    And sang his sweetest songs: 
  Their theme was of the gentleness,
    Which to the soul belongs,
  Ere yet it knows the name or dress
    Of human rights and wrongs.

  And of the wants which make agree
    All parts of this vast plan;
  How life is in whate’er we see,
    And only life in man:—­
  What matter where the less may be,
    And where the longer span?

An d how the heart grows hard without
    Soft Pity’s freshing dews;
  And how when any life goes out
    Some little pang ensues;—­
  Facts which great soldiers often doubt,
    And wits who write reviews.