O, I have felt a kinship with the grand,
The tender, the magnificent;

Is 't possible the hand

That once hath swept the mystic under-keys
Of this vast instrument,

Can perish utterly?

Is 't possible the night

On which I enter now
Will know no day?

Can that, that feels and utters all decay?
O spirit, bend thy brow!

O soul, sink on thy knees!
Wait calmly till the light

Break on thy trembling, deep anxiety.
Far, hid eternity!

What is thy shadow? what thy mystery?
Most holy Book!

To which great earnest men have come
Through the long ages with their agonies
Of dark implorings, doubts, uncertainties,
And fierce upreachings of the spirit dumb,
I cling to thee.

O Spirit! dawn on me;

Unseal my inward seeing while I look!
My hands are clasped before me, and my eyes
Are dim with prayer.

Thou Man of Calvary !

Thou of the fairest fair!

With the atoning blood on brow and side,
Come near, and let me kiss Thy feet,

Receive Thy holy chrism, and rise complete

Serene of soul, and pure, and pacified.

Smile on me till these achings feel Thy balm,
And my rocked soul is strong to wait
Amid the darkness, and

Be calm,

THE MISSED BUTT.

A SUPERSTITION.

There is a superstition current in North Staffordshire (if elsewhere, I am unacquainted with the fact) which holds—or did hold a generation back-that if a farmer, in sowing his yearly breadth, accidentally misses or overlooks one of the "butts," a circumstance which occasionally happens, and does not perceive the omission till the absence of the green blade discovers the fact, it is a sure sign of a death in his household.

The "butts," in the North Staffordshire vernacular, are the long narrow ridges, or beds, thrown together by the plough, with separating furrows for the drainage on which the seed is sown.

WAS Teamsman for that year

Tho' but slim and over-grown :
Father did the sowing then.

All the yearly breadth was sown,

Save an angle of a field,

Lately broken up from lea-
That where stood the old sheepcote

By the lightning-splintered tree.

Night was down upon us; yet

Father coughed and firked his beard;

'Twas not much-the mould was dry— Seed was down-the team was geared.

Then he skyward looked, where winds, Clouds, and rain were gathering might"Up, my lads!" he said; "we'll do't Ere we stable for the night:

"'Tis o'er late a week or more

n;

Now and every sign of rain We may wish it done i'th' morn," So we slapped to work again.

Flew the harrows o'er the loam;
Flew the seed from flying fist.
But when springing blades showed green
Then 'twas found a butt was missed!

"I have farmed for forty year,

Sown my seed myself a score,"

Said my father; "but I never,

Never played this game afore."

Then up spake a wrinkled crone, ""Tis a deadly certain sign; There will be a death i'th' house

Ere the Christmas berries shine."

Then the household laughed aloud, Lightly chode the dame, and said "Twas a weak old woman's tale :"

But the woman shook her head.

All the family after that

Scanned the butt with dubious eye,

Felt a sinking at their hearts,

Probing not for reason why.

Came disease when fields had flowers,
Breathed upon a lassie fair,
Stole her music, laid her dead-
Dead among her glory hair!

Bare and barren stretched the butt
Just as if the need were less;
Dead and still our darling lay
With no want we might redress.

Dropped the silence on the earth,
Came the ripeness to the corn;

And the reapers went about,

And the crowded fields were shorn.

Sadly eyed we all the butt,

Hinting never aught; and yet Through the years that barren butt

No one of us may e'er forget.

G

ASSOCIATION.

A REVERIE.

IS an early spring-time ramble,
Where the lambs on hillocks gambol,
And the blackbird in the bramble

Tells its dream of brighter skies.

'Tis a noontide dusked and stilly, And the wind comes low and chilly From the northern, wild and hilly,

Where the snow in patches lies.

'Tis a welkin dark and lowering,

Demon-pinions spread and soaring,
Craggy turrets grim and towering,

Groaning beams and rafters under ;

Gorgon faces, foam exuding,

Double-chinned, and black and brooding,

Hateful serpent-eyes protruding,

Languid bosoms ript asunder;

Foaming seas and forms titanic,

Moping geryons, scaled, satanic.
Rabble-hordes in wildest panic,

Bannered armies dim revealed.

Monsters doubling and disjointing,
Druids eld, white heads anointing,