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The love that lived through all the stormy past,

And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,

Shall it expire with life, and be no more? A happier lot than mine, and larger light

Await thee there; for thou hast bow'd thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,

Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,

Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,

The wisdom that I learn'd so ill in thisThe wisdom which is love—till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ?


Music on the daters.
Oh! lone is the spirit on life's troubled ocean,

With tempests around it and torrents below,
Till calm o'er the breast the pure thoughts of devotion,

Like airs from the gardens of Paradise blow. 'Tis sweet, as we glide o'er tre cold waves of sorrow,

To think of the loved who have vanish'd before ; We know they are blest; we shall meet them to-morrow;

We pass o'er the deep, and they call from the shore.
They haste in their joy o'er the waters to meet us,

The love-lighted waves of the ocean of rest;
And sweet are their songs as they tenderly greet us,

They bring us kind words from the Land of the blest. They still the wild billows of trouble around us,

The Eden of Love they unveil to the sight;
And peace with its garland of lilies hath crown'd us,
And Mercy hath robed us with vestures of light





AND schortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,
That I was of here felawschipe anon,
And made forward erly to aryse,
To take our weye ther as I yow devyse.
But natheless, whiles I have tyme and space,
Or that I ferthere in this tale pace,
Me thinketh it accordant to resoun,
To telle yow alle the condicipun
Of eche of hem, so as it semed me,
And which they weren, and of what degré.




The Good Parson.
A GOOD man was there of religioun,
And was a poor parson of a town;
But rich he was of holy thought and work ;
He was also a learned man; a clerk
That Christ's gospel would truly preach,
His parishioners devoutly would he teach.
Benign he was, and wondrous diligent,
And in adversity full patient;
As proven oft, to all who lack'd a friend.
Loth for his tithes to ban or to contend,
At every need much rather was he found
Unto his poor parishioners around
Of his own substance and his dues to give ;
Content on little, for himself, to live.

Wide was his parish; the houses far asunder;
Yet never waited he for rain or thunder,
Whenever sickness or mischance might call,
The most remote to visit, great or small,
And, staff in hand, on foot, the storm to brave,
This noble ensample to his

flock he gave,
That first he wrought, and after that he taught
The word of life he from the gospel caught;
And well this figure added he thereto,
That if gold rust what should iron do?
And if the priest be foul on whom we trust,
What wonder if the unletter'd layman lust?
And shame it were in him the flock should keep,
To see a sullied shepherd, and clean sheep.

Well ought a priest ensample for to give
By his own cleanness how his sheep should live.

He never set his benefice to hire,
Leaving his flock encumber'd in the mire,
And ran to London unto Saint Paul's,
To seek himself a chauntery for souls,
Or with a brotherhood to be enroll'd;
But dwelt at home, and guarded well his fold,
So that it should not by the wolf miscarry;
He was a shepherd, and no mercenäry.

And though he holy were, and virtuous,
He was to sinful men naught unpiteous;
Not of reproach imperious or malign;
But in his teaching discreet and benign.
To draw them on to heaven, by fairness
And good example, was his business :
But were there any person obstinate,
Were he of lofty or of low estate,
Him would he sharp reprove I wis :
A better priest I trow there nowhere is.

He waited not on pomp or reverence,
Nor made himself a spiced conscience.
The lore of Christ and his apostles twelve
He taught: but, first, he followed it himselve.

CHAUCER. (Modernised.)

The Village Preacher. NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place; Uupractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain; The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;

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