The Tent on the Beach | Page 7

soothingly, "thy work is done;
And no more as a servant, but the
guest
Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest.
No toil, no tears, no
sorrow for the lost,
Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down

Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown
Forever and
forever."--Piero tossed
On his sick-pillow: "Miserable me!
I am too
poor for such grand company;
The crown would be too heavy for this
gray
Old head; and God forgive me if I say
It would be hard to sit
there night and day,
Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught

With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought,
Not for bread
only, but for pity's sake.
I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,

Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head,
Scarce worth the
saving, if all else be dead.
And if one goes to heaven without a heart,

God knows he leaves behind his better part.
I love my fellow-men:
the worst I know
I would do good to. Will death change me so
That
I shall sit among the lazy saints,
Turning a deaf ear to the sore
complaints
Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet
Left a poor dog in
the strada hard beset,
Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less
Than
dog or ass, in holy selfishness?
Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the
thought be sin!)

The world of pain were better, if therein
One's
heart might still be human, and desires
Of natural pity drop upon its
fires
Some cooling tears."
Thereat the pale monk crossed
His brow, and, muttering, "Madman!
thou art lost!"
Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone,
The sick
man closed his eyes with a great groan
That sank into a prayer, "Thy
will be done!"
Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,
Of

somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,
And of a voice like that of
her who bore him,
Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear!

For heaven is love, as God himself is love;
Thy work below shall be
thy work above."
And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place

He saw the shining of an angel's face!
1864.
. . . . .
The Traveller broke the pause. "I've seen
The Brothers down the long
street steal,
Black, silent, masked, the crowd between,
And felt to
doff my hat and kneel
With heart, if not with knee, in prayer,
For
blessings on their pious care."
Reader wiped his glasses: "Friends of mine,
I'll try our home-brewed
next, instead of foreign wine."
THE CHANGELING.
For the fairest maid in Hampton
They needed not to search,
Who
saw young Anna Favor
Come walking into church,
Or bringing from the meadows,
At set of harvest-day,
The frolic of
the blackbirds,
The sweetness of the hay.
Now the weariest of all mothers,
The saddest two-years bride,
She
scowls in the face of her husband,
And spurns her child aside.
"Rake out the red coals, goodman,--
For there the child shall lie,

Till the black witch comes to fetch her
And both up chimney fly.
"It's never my own little daughter,
It's never my own," she said;

"The witches have stolen my Anna,
And left me an imp instead.
"Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,
Blue eyes, and hair of gold;
But
this is ugly and wrinkled,
Cross, and cunning, and old.

"I hate the touch of her fingers,
I hate the feel of her skin;
It's not
the milk from my bosom,
But my blood, that she sucks in.
"My face grows sharp with the torment;
Look! my arms are skin and
bone!
Rake open the red coals, goodman,
And the witch shall have
her own.
"She 'll come when she hears it crying,
In the shape of an owl or bat,

And she'll bring us our darling Anna
In place of her screeching
brat."
Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,
Laid his hand upon her head
"Thy
sorrow is great, O woman!
I sorrow with thee," he said.
"The paths to trouble are many,
And never but one sure way
Leads
out to the light beyond it
My poor wife, let us pray."
Then he said to the great All-Father,
"Thy daughter is weak and blind;

Let her sight come back, and clothe her
Once more in her right
mind.
"Lead her out of this evil shadow,
Out of these fancies wild;
Let the
holy love of the mother
Turn again to her child.
"Make her lips like the lips of Mary
Kissing her blessed Son;
Let
her hands, like the hands of Jesus,
Rest on her little one.
"Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,
Open her prison-door,
And
thine shall be all the glory
And praise forevermore."
Then into the face of its mother
The baby looked up and smiled;

And the cloud of her soul was lifted,
And she knew her little child.
A beam of the slant west sunshine
Made the wan face almost fair,

Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder,
And the rings of pale gold hair.

She kissed it on lip and forehead,
She kissed it on cheek and chin,

And she bared her snow-white bosom
To the lips so pale and thin.
Oh, fair on her bridal morning
Was the maid who blushed and smiled,

But fairer to Ezra Dalton
Looked the mother of his child.
With more than a lover's fondness
He stooped