XVIII. THE NORMAN BOY. HIGH on a broad, unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down, Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own, From home and company remote and every playful joy, Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman Boy. Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from an English Dame, Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came, With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child, Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the dreary Wild. His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics sprinkled o'er Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed, And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed. There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed, For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made. A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he. The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought Some limber twigs into a Cross, well shaped with fingers nice, To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide, The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide. That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the house less waste Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed. Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let us before we part With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart, That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's appointed way, The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an allsufficing stay. XIX. THE POET'S DREAM. SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. JUST as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power, And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, within that very hour, Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the sky, And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved a pensive sigh. Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared, For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned hut appeared; And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air, I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in prayer. The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake with articulate call, Bowed meekly, in submissive fear, before the Lord of All; His lips were moving; and his eyes, upraised to sue for grace, With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place. How beautiful is holiness! - what wonder if the sight, Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night? It came with sleep, and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed, But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed. Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms, And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms, And bore him high through yielding air, my debt of love to pay, By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. I whispered, "Yet a little while, dear Child! thou art my own, To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town. What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm, St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of Notre Dame ? "St. Ouen's golden Shrine? Or choose what else would please thee most Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, can boast!" "My mother," said the Boy," was born near to a blessed Tree, The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good Angel, show it me!" On wings, from broad and steadfast poise let loose by this reply, For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away then did we fly; O'er town and tower we flew, and fields in May's fresh verdure drest; The wings they did not flag; the Child, though grave, was not deprest. |