WEE WILLIE. WEE WILLIE. - Moir. FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest! Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling, As we gazed upon thee sleeping, With thy fine, fair locks outspread, Who to earth from heaven had strayed; Snows o'ermantled hill and valley, When the first drear doubt oppressed us, And each anxious dawn behe'd him 421 Like the shot-star, in blue midnight, Came and went thy last, low breath, Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones, Why should dreams of doubt and darkness Why across the cold, dim churchyard, Flit our visions of despair? Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel Says, "Ye are not there!" Where, then, are ye? With the Saviour 'Mid the sinless little children, Who have heard his "Come to me!" 'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter, We are wicked- we are weary · 1 THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. With his holy vestments dight, And all his past career Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, And in his cell, when death drew near, To the East with praise he turned, "I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, "Vainly I left my angel's sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year. 425 "Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped; Creation's chorus stopped! "Go back and praise again. The early way while I remain. "With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up Creation's pausing strain. "Back to the cell and poor employ; Theocrite grew old at home; One vanished as the other died; 426 THE CHIMNEY SWEEP. THE CHIMNEY SWEEP. SWEEP ho! Sweep ho! He trudges on through sleet and snow. He trudges on through sleet and snow. Faithfully it now shall be, But, soon spent, down droppeth he. Led by a fantastic power Which sets by the present hour, Creeps he to a little bed, Pillows there his aching head, And, poor thing! he does not know There he lay long years ago! THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 423 THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.- Browning. MORNING, evening, noon, and night, Then to his poor trade he turned, Hard he labored, long and well; But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise God." Then back again his curls he threw, Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done! "As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way. "This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome." Said Theocrite, "Would God that I "Might praise Him, that great way, and die!" Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone. With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day. God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night |