Her dim procession, coming from the mist
That hangs round infancy, then moving on
Through youth and manhood, till the mimic train
Ends in the foreground where the dreamer sits,
And lo! his image fades into himself.

And thus the sick man in his waking dream
Saw first a child that played 'mid toys and flowers
With a fair girl, his elder by two years;

And then the boy would row her. o'er the lake
In his light wherry; or at noon of day,
Within the weeping ash-tree's leafy bowers,

Read brave tales for her. How some steel-clad knight,
Riding thro' greenwood, rescued noble dames

From thrall of giant. Then the sweet reward—

A kiss from that dear sister on his brow,

Disparting his brown curls with her fair hand.

And next, the boy found out, half pleased, half grieved, That she was not his sister. For even then

A strange wish stirred his young heart, and he thought
The sister that he lost might be to him

A more than sister. Then he grew more shy,
But tenderer withal in his reserve,

And nourished his young soul with solitude,
With books and minstrelsy; and learned to shape
His thoughts in music. But the unconscious girl
Changed not as he; for still she spoke as wont,
And called him brother.

Then from out the shade
Stept forth another form-beautiful 'twas,
And young, and manly; but the jealous boy
Trembled with fear and anger, for it stood
Between him and his love. Then all became
Troubled and wild, and hurrying to and fro;
For storm, and lightning, and the thunder peal
Swept o'er the scene, and shook the mimic things,
And made the lights grow dim and flickering,
That memory lent to light the show withal.
The storm and darkness passed, and with them, too,
The phantom shapes-save one. It was the boy
Crossing the sea, and seeking that great place,
The mart of the wide world. Then toilfully,
With resolution high, that would not fail,
Still pressing onward, though oft beaten down.
As the strong waves of the inflowing sea,

Though crushed upon the rocks, and beaten back,
Muster their force the more for the recoil,
And ever more rush on, and rise at last

High o'er the cliffs that broke them. So the youth
Worked on and won his toilful way to fame,

And grew familiar to the lips of men.

For he had looked more deep into his soul,

And held long converse with the subtle powers

That swayed and shook his spirit. So he learned

The mysteries of his own nature, till

He made them ministers to work his will
On other men as they had once on him-
To stir the wells of feeling to their source,
To agitate and soothe, make sad and grieve-
To be to human souls what winds of heaven,
And sun, and shower, and elemental fire
Are to the soulless world of earth and sea-
To be a Poet.

Thus it was the boy

Had risen to man—the rhymester to the bard;
But strength of body grew not with the one,
Nor in the other healthiness of soul.

The wounds of his young life were still unhealed;
And though the cautery had skinned them o'er,
Yet was the poison rankling still beneath,
Tainting his moral being. So his verse,
Trenchant and lofty, spared not vice or folly,
Nor much allowed for man's or woman's truth,
But shewed their failings with a master's skill.
And so the mind's unrest wasted the form,
And the slow fever of a morbid heart
Was wearing him away. But when the blasts
Of winter howled adown the gloomy streets,
And frost and sleet-shower pinched his weakly frame,
He left the town to seek a sunnier dwelling
In southern climates. Then the love of home,
Dormant, but not yet dead, within his breast
A strong desire to see once more the haunts
Of happy childhood-led his steps aside
From his directer road. And thus it was,
That very boy-that man of the dim vision-
Now sate a-musing by the lone fireside,
On Christmas eve, within the hamlet inn.

The hours passed on unheeded-in the grate

The logs burned low, and smouldered white-the lights
Flickered within their sockets. From the tower
Of the quaint church rang out the hour of twelve.
And then the brattle of the sweet-tongued bells,
Clanging and clashing, pealed into the night
A joyous chime, to welcome Christmas in.
The stranger started, for those jocund tones
Rang on his heart as old familiar sounds,
Calling to mind the times when, as a boy,
He loved to chaunt those holy hymns of old,
Which saints and holy fathers of the Church
Have left as precious gifts to later times.
And as he lay upon his couch that night,
It seemed as though sweet voices in the air

Gave utterance to his thoughts in strains like these:

"O te laudum nullibus

Laudo, laudo, laudo;

Tantis mirabilibus,

Plaudo, plaudo, plaudo.
Gloria, sit gloría,
Amanti memoria,

塞

Domino in altis,

Cui testímonía
Bantur et preconia
Coelicis a psaltis."

"In the name of wonder what is all that, most erudite cousin? It sounds very sweetly, but I understand as much about it as my pony, Ariel." ""Tis Latin, Abby; part of an old Christmas hymn written by an Abbot of Livry in the days of old.' 66 Shocking! Jonathan; why this is flat heresy-Puseyism-Popery." "My dear Abby," said I, gravely, it is neither one nor the other. I beseech you do not speak about what you do not understand, or I shall presently mistake

66

you for a controversialist. But listen; here is something to suit your comprehension."

"Glory be to God on high!

Christ is born to-day,

Peace on earth, and charity,
Christ is born to-day.

Stars from heaven look wond'ring down
On the Lord that left his throne;
White-robed angels, golden-crowned,
Strike their harps with joyful sound.
Glory be to God on high!
Christ is born to-day.

Peace on earth. and charity,
Christ is born to-day.”

Such was the holy Carol that, as day
Dawned greyly upon night, fell on the ear
Of the still sleeping stranger. Clear and small
The trebles of young children raised the song,
Meet heralds, they, of that most gracious Lord
Who loved and took them in his sacred arms,

And blessed them. Then the man's heart was touched,
For he remembered, when a little child,

How he and one he loved stole to the door

Of his sire's chamber, and their Christmas hymn

Sang reverently, then with joyous shout

Cried, "Happy Christmas!" and "my Christmas-box!”

Upon a pleasant stretch of richest ground,

That sloped from up the river, where the trees
Grew thick in sheltering patches, rose a pile
Ancient and massive: such as ye may see
Still in their ruins, near that classic stream
Where the third William battled for our isle,
Bective, or Mellifont; those glorious fanes
That reverently men reared in olden times,
To shame the hovels that the rich man now,
Casting his mites into God's treasury,

Builds with a grudging hand and lukewarm heart
To his Creator. Lofty nave and choir,

With intersecting transept-high, square tower-
Doorways, where from the clustering shafts upspring
The pointed arch, and in whose deep recess
Arch within arch in lessening span and height
Rise from the frequent columns, shortening still
As they retire, while all betwixt the shafts,
And over the archivolts, run mouldings quaint,
Zig-zag and toothed, trefoils, leaves and flowers-
The mullioned windows, in whose graceful sweep
The rose evolves its insersecting curves
In florid tracery, wherein is seen
The gorgeous light of many-tinted glass-
Buttress and parapet, and gargoyles quaint,
Grotesquely leaning from the heavy eaves..
Beautiful Temples!-See that none profane
Their solemn grandeur with the rites or forms
That erring man, in superstitious times,
Devised to cramp the freedom and the grace
Of Christ's most holy Bride.

Within the shadow of a clustered shaft

That bore the groinèd roof, the stranger leaned,

And heard the Christmas service of our Church,
Her prayers, her psalms, her reverent thankfulness,
Her solemn jubilation, and the burst

Of her triumphant anthem, that proclaimed
"Glory to God, peace and good will to man ;"
And all around within that holy place
He saw glad faces; and the love of God
To man was kindling in the heart of man
Love to his brother. One there sat alone,
Aged and bowed; upon whose reverend face
Care and some secret grief had been at work.
The young man's eye sought out that aged face,
And gazed, and turned away, and gazed again;
As though a spell forced him to fix his eyes
Upon a sight that wrung him.

All had gone

Forth from the church. The stranger lingered still
Amongst the aisles, and read upon the tombs
The records of the dead. What now to them
Were all the joys, the griefs, the things of life,

Save in so far as these to each had been

Probation to their souls for good or ill;

Their wealth, their power, their pride, their loves, their hates-
All now were nothing, and had passed away,

Even as the toys fall out of children's hands
When sleep surprises them amid their sports.
And so he mused; then turned his steps aside
To a low postern in the churchyard wall,
And passed into a wood-entangled walk
That led up to the Hall.

Alone, within the library, there sate

The same old man. 'Twas Henry Ravenscroft-
His eyes turned sadly to the mantel-piece,
Where hung against the wall a rod and flute.
In happier days, when Walter was a boy,

These had been his; and now, save a few books,
They were the only memories of his child
The old man had to look on. Lovingly
And long he gazed upon them, till the tears
Blinded his vision. Then he looked around
With a woe-stricken eye through the lone room,
As if in search of some one. But he sighed
In disappointed hope, and shook his head,
And groaned, "Where art thou, Walter ?"

A sharp cry
Rang through the chamber, and a trembling man
Sank down before him, clinging to his knees,
And sobbed forth, "At thy feet, my father!"

Hours passed away or it might be but minutes-
Sensations, not the sands, measure out time
Unto our spirits—and the sire and son
Lay each on other's bosom. Who shall tell

What words were spoke, or, harder still, what things,
Too great for words, were left unspoken-thoughts,
Long pent up in their souls-yearnings of love,
Sorrow, and joy, and penitence, and pardon?
Who shall profane the sanctuary of their hearts?
Not I. This only know I, when at length
Walter looked up, before his eyes there stood

A matron fair who leaned upon a man,

And held a young girl's hand. Alice and Ralph,
With joy and wonder moved, stept forth to meet him ;
But Walter shuddered, and he pressed his hand
Upon his eyes. Then Alice whispered low
Unto the child, who softly stole to Walter,
And took his hand, and looking lovingly
Towards his face, said to him, "Uncle Walter,
Mamma has told me oft that I should love you
If I should see you ever, and I wish

To love you now." But Walter drew his hand
From the child's grasp, and she shrank scared away-
Yet once again her mother whispered long,
And sent her back. Then timidly the child
Approached and said, "I'll tell you a sweet tale,
How a great king once sent his only son
Into a far-off land of wicked men,
Who would not keep his laws.

And how that son

Was borne unto its confines in the hands
Of the king's servants, on a cold wild night,
When only one bright star shone out to guide.
And the king's son, disguised in mean attire,
Taught men to keep the law and love the king,
And cease from strife, and be as brothers all,
In love and charity. And how at length
He told the people that he was the son

Of their great king. How some believed his words,
How all the rest reviled and scorned, and said

Thou art not the king's son.' Then how they beat
And thrust him forth for dead out of the land-
How he arose and went back to his father;
But ere he left his small believing band,
He gave them a commandment: it was this,
That they should love each other even as he
Loved them and loved his father-nay still more,
That as the king loved even the wicked men,
And sent his son to win them back to duty,
So should they love and bless their enemies-
And how he told them if they so should love,
The king would one day send for them to dwell
In his own city evermore. And so

He blessed them and departed."
Then the tears

Trickled through Walter's long, thin fingers down,
And fell upon the child, who, wondering, said-
"Uncle, I did not mean to grieve you-pray, forgive
And love me and us all."