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THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE.

Forth-looking from the castle tower,
Beyond the hills with almonds dark,
The straining eye could scarce discern
The chapel of the good St. Mark.

And there, when bitter word or fare
The service of the youth repaid,
By stealth, before that holy shrine,
For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed.

The steed stamped at the castle gate,

The boar-hunt sounded on the hill; Why stayed the Baron from the chase, With looks so stern, and words so ill?

"Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn,

By scath of fire and strain of cord, How ill they speed who give dead saints The homage due their living lord!"

They bound him on the fearful rack, When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark,

He saw the light of shining robes,

And knew the face of good St. Mark.

Then sank the iron rack apart,

The cords released their cruel clasp, The pincers, with their teeth of fire,

Fell broken from the torturer's grasp.

And lo! before the Youth and Saint,
Barred door and wall of stone gave way;
And up from bondage and the night
They passed to freedom and the
day!

O dreaming monk! thy tale is true;
O painter! true thy pencil's art;
In tones of hope and prophecy,
Ye whisper to my listening heart!

Unheard no burdened heart's appeal Moans up to God's inclining ear; Unheeded by his tender eye,

Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear.

For still the Lord alone is God!

The pomp and power of tyrant man Are scattered at his lightest breath, Like chaff before the winnower's fan.

Not always shall the slave uplift

His heavy hands to Heaven in vain. God's angel, like the good St. Mark,

Comes shining down to break his chain!

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O weary ones! ye may not see
Your helpers in their downward flight;
Nor hear the sound of silver wings

Slow beating through the hush of night!

But not the less gray Dothan shone, With sunbright watchers bending low, That Fear's dim eye beheld alone

The spear-heads of the Syrian foe.

There are, who, like the Seer of old,
Can see the helpers God has sent,
And how life's rugged mountain-side
Is white with many an angel tent!

They hear the heralds whom our Lord

Sends down his pathway to prepare ; And light, from others hidden, shines On their high place of faith and prayer.

Let such, for earth's despairing ones, Hopeless, yet longing to be free, Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer: "Lord, ope their eyes, that they may

see!

THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE.49

CALM on the breast of Loch Maree

A little isle reposes;
A shadow woven of the oak

And willow o'er it closes.

Within, a Druid's mound is seen,

Set round with stony warders; A fountain, gushing through the turf, Flows o'er its grassy borders.

And whoso bathes therein his brow,

With care or madness burning,
Feels once again his healthful thought
And sense of peace returning.

O restless heart and fevered brain,
Unquiet and unstable,
That holy well of Loch Maree
Is more than idle fable!

Life's changes vex, its discords stun,

Its glaring sunshine blindeth, And blest is he who on his way That fount of healing findeth!

The shadows of a humbled will

And contrite heart are o'er it; Go read its legend-"TRUST IN GOD"On Faith's white stones before it.

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DEAR SISTER! - while the wise and sage
Turn coldly from my playful page,
And count it strange that ripened age
Should stoop to boyhood's folly;
I know that thou wilt judge aright
Of all which makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night
Of clouded Melancholy.

Away with weary cares and themes !
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!
Leave free once more the land which teems

With wonders and romances ! Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies.

Lo! once again our feet we set
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,
By lonely brooks, whose waters fret

The roots of spectral beeches;
Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er
Home's whitewashed wall and painted
floor,

And young eyes widening to the lore
Of faery-folks and witches.

Dear heart! the legend is not vain
Which lights that holy hearth again,
And calling back from care and pain,

And death's funereal sadness,
Draws round its old familiar blaze
The clustering groups of happier days,
And lends to sober manhood's gaze

A glimpse of childish gladness. And, knowing how my life hath been A weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed

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Spake the simple tradesman then,

"God be judge 'twixt thou and I ; All thou knowest of truth hath been Unto men like thee a lie.

"Falsehoods which we spurn to-day
Were the truths of long ago;
Let the dead boughs fall away,
Fresher shall the living grow.

"God is good and God is light,

In this faith I rest secure ; Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure.

"Of your spectral puppet play I have traced the cunning wires ;

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That kings and priests to Liberty And God are false in turn.

Earth wearies of them; and the long Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail;

Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong

Wake, struggle, and prevail !

Not vainly Roman hearts have bled

To feed the Crozier and the Crown, If, roused thereby, the world shall tread The twin-born vampires down!

ELLIOTT.51

HANDS off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play

No trick of priestcraft here!
Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay
A hand on Elliott's bier?

Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust,
Beneath his feet he trod :

He knew the locust swarm that cursed
The harvest-fields of God.

On these pale lips, the smothered thought

Which England's millions feel,
A fierce and fearful splendor caught,
As from his forge the steel.
Strong-armed as Thor,

a shower of fire His smitten anvil flung; God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire,

He gave them all a tongue!

Then let the poor man's horny hands
Bear up the mighty dead,

And labor's swart and stalwart bands
Behind as mourners tread.
Leave cant and craft their baptized
bounds,

Leave rank its minster floor; Give England's green and daisied grounds

The poet of the poor!

Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge
That brave old heart of oak,
With fitting dirge from sounding forge,
And pall of furnace smoke!
Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds,
And axe and sledge are swung,
And, timing to their stormy sounds,
His stormy lays are sung.

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But unto prisons, where men lay in chains,

To haunts where Hunger pined, To kings and courts forgetful of the pains

And wants of human-kind,

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds

Unrest

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Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray

The classic forms of yore,

of good,

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Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown

From off the Cyprian shore, Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone,

That man they valued more. A life of beauty lends to all it sees The beauty of its thought;

And beauty smiles, new risen from the And fairest forms and sweetest harmo

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nies

Make glad its way, unsought.

In sweet accordancy of praise and

love,

The singing waters run; And sunset mountains wear in light

above

The smile of duty done;

From Malta's temples to the gates of Sure stands the promise,

Rome,

Following the track of Paul,

meek A heritage is given;

-ever to the

And where the Alps gird round the Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted,

Switzer's home

Their vast, eternal wall;

seek

The righteousness of Heaven!

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