Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,

In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life:

But when at last came upward from the street

Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,

The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,

Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.

And the monk said, "T is but the Brotherhood

Of Mercy going on some errand good: Their black masks by the palace-wall ! see."

Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me! This day for the first time in forty years In vain the bell hath sounded in my

ish brain,

To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, Down the long twilight of the corridors, Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.

I loved the work: it was its own reward.

I never counted on it to offset My sins, which are many, or make less my debt

To the free grace and mercy of our Lord;

But somehow, father, it has come to be

In these long years so much a part of me, I should not know myself, if lacking it, But with the work the worker too would

That I shall sit among the lazy saints, Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset, Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness? Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin !)

The world of pain were better, if therein One's heart might still be human, and - desires

Of natural pity drop upon its fires
Some cooling tears."

Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!"

Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone, The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan

That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!"

373

Then was he made aware, by soul or

ear,

Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,

And of a voice like that of her who bore him,

Tender and most

"Never fear !

compassionate:

For heaven is love, as God himself is love;

Thy work below shall be thy work above."

And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place

He saw the shining of an angel's face!

The Traveller broke the pause. "I've

seen

The Brothers down the long street steal,

Black, silent, masked, the crowd be

tween,

And felt to doff my hat and kneel With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, For blessings on their pious care.' The Reader wiped his "Friends of mine,

glasses:

We'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine."

"It's never my own little daughter,
It's never my own," she said;
"The witches have stolen my Anna,
And left me an imp instead.

"O, fair and sweet was my baby,
Blue eyes, and hair of gold;
But this is ugly and wrinkled,
Cross, and cunning, and old.

"I hate the touch of her fingers,
I hate the feel of her skin;
It's not the milk from my bosom,
But my blood, that she sucks in.

"My face grows sharp with the torment; Look! my arms are skin and bone! Rake open the red coals, goodman,

And the witch shall have her own.

"She'll come when she hears it crying,
In the shape of an owl or bat,
And she 'll bring us our darling Anna
In place of her screeching brat."

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,

Laid his hand upon her head: "Thy sorrow is great, O woman! I sorrow with thee," he said.

"The paths to trouble are many,

And never but one sure way
Leads out to the light beyond it:
My poor wife, let us pray."

Then he said to the great All-Father,
"Thy daughter is weak and blind;
Let her sight come back, and clothe her
Once more in her right mind.

"Lead her out of this evil shadow,
Out of these fancies wild ; •
Let the holy love of the mother
Turn again to her child.

"Make her lips like the lips of Mary Kissing her blessed Son;

Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,
Rest on her little one.

"Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,
Open her prison-door,
And thine shall be all the glory
And praise forevermore."

Then into the face of its mother

The baby looked up and smiled; And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child.

A beam of the slant west sunshine
Made the wan face almost fair,
Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder,
And the rings of pale gold hair.

She kissed it on lip and forehead,
She kissed it on cheek and chin,
And she bared her snow-white bosom
To the lips so pale and thin.

O, fair on her bridal morning

Was the maid who blushed and smiled,

But fairer to Ezra Dalton

Looked the mother of his child.

With more than a lover's fondness

He stooped to her worn young face, And the nursing child and the mother He folded in one embrace.

"Blessed be God!" he murmured. "Blessed be God!" she said; "For I see, who once was blinded, I live, who once was dead. "Now mount and ride, my goodman, As thou lovest thy own soul ! Woe's me, if my wicked fancies Be the death of Goody Cole !

His horse he saddled and bridled,
And into the night rode he,
Now through the great black woodland
Now by the white-beached sea.

He rode through the silent clearings,
He came to the ferry wide,
And thrice he called to the boatman
Asleep on the other side.

He set his horse to the river,

He swam to Newbury town,
And he called up Justice Sewall
In his nightcap and his
gown.

And the grave and worshipful justice
(Upon whose soul be peace!)
Set his name to the jailer's warrant
For Goodwife Cole's release.

Then through the night the hoof-beats
Went sounding like a flail;
And Goody Cole at cockcrow
Came forth from Ipswich jail.

Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise, Tossed back her queenly head, And, lightly laughing, said,

375

"No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold

That is not lined with yellow gold;
I tread no cottage-floor;
I own no lover poor.

"My love must come on silken wings,
With bridal lights of diamond rings,
Not foul with kitchen smirch,
With tallow-dip for torch."

The other, on whose modest head
Was lesser dower of beauty shed,
With look for home-hearths meet,
And voice exceeding sweet,

Answered, -"We will not rivals be;
Take thou the gold, leave love to me;
Mine be the cottage small,
And thine the rich man's hall.

"I know, indeed, that wealth is good; But lowly roof and simple food,

With love that hath no doubt, Are more than gold without." Hard by a farmer hale and young His cradle in the rye-field swung, Tracking the yellow plain

With windrows of ripe grain.

And still, whene'er he paused to whet His scythe, the sidelong glance he met Of large dark eyes, where strove False pride and secret love.

Be strong, young mower of the grain ;
That love shall overmatch disdain,
Its instincts soon or late
The heart shall vindicate.

In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod,
Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod
The margin of the pond,
Watching the group beyond.

The supreme hours unnoted come;
Unfelt the turning tides of doom;
And so the maids laughed on,
Nor dreamed what Fate had done, -

Nor knew the step was Destiny's That rustled in the birchen trees, As, with their lives forecast, Fisher and mower passed.

Erelong by lake and rivulet side
The summer roses paled and died,
And Autumn's fingers shed
The maple's leaves of red.

Through the long gold-hazed afternoon,
Alone, but for the diving loon,

The partridge in the brake,
The black duck on the lake,

Beneath the shadow of the ash
Sat man and maid by Attitash;

And earth and air made room
For human hearts to bloom.

Soft spread the carpets of the sod, And scarlet-oak and golden-rod With blushes and with smiles Lit up the forest aisles.

The mellow light the lake aslant,
The pebbled margin's ripple-chant
Attempered and low-toned,
The tender mystery owned.

And through the dream the lovers dreamed

Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights .streamed;

The sunshine seemed to bless,
The air was a caress.

Not she who lightly laughed is there,
With scornful toss of midnight hair,
Her dark, disdainful eyes,
And proud lip worldly-wise.

Her haughty vow is still unsaid, But all she dreamed and coveted Wears, half to her surprise, The youthful farmer's guise!

With more than all her old-time pride
She walks the rye-field at his side,
Careless of cot or hall,
Since love transfigures all.

Rich beyond dreams, the vantageground

Of life is gained; her hands have found The talisman of old

That changes all to gold.

While she who could for love dispense
With all its glittering accidents,
And trust her heart alone,
Finds love and gold her own.

What wealth can buy or art can build
Awaits her; but her cup is filled

Even now unto the brim;
Her world is love and him!

The while he heard, the Book-man drew

A length of make-believing face, With smothered mischief laughing through:

"Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place,

And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep On Yankee hills immortal sheep, While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond

Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond."

The Traveller laughed; "Sir Galahad

Singing of love the Trouvere's lay! How should he know the blindfold lad From one of Vulcan's forge-boys?"

Nay,

He better sees who stands outside Than they who in procession ride," The Reader answered: "selectmen

and squire

Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.

"Here is a wild tale of the North,

Our travelled friend will own as one Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth And lips of Christian Andersen. They tell it in the valleys green Of the fair island he has seen, Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,

Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore."