A GRAVE IN THE CHANCEL. 235 



They seemed, in sooth, two sister things, 

 That low, black stranger and the king's : 

 A boat rocked by her on the flood ; 

 A stain was on her side of blood, 

 And told how struggle fiercely grew 

 Between the boarders and her crew, 

 Ere rose the red-cross flag that waves 

 In triumph over rescued slaves. 



No. XX. A GRAVE IN THE CHANCEL. 



Pass scenes like these, where Grief reclines on Art, 

 And sculptured mockery weeps but not the heart ; 

 Pass scenes like these, beneath yon plain grey stone, 

 Carved with his much-loved name, and that alone, 

 Within the circle, whence each day of rest 

 They heard him bless them Yea ! and they were blessed 

 Released at last from all his earthly woes 

 The village curate's poor remains repose. 



Few were his days ; and evil and forlorn 



Taught him this lesson " Man was made to mourn. " 



The Stranger's charity was all he knew, 



His orphan cradle braided with the yew ; 



His youth a desert where no prospect smiled, 



His fortune penury, and his home the wild, 



Born to no station, with his course as free 



As the rough billow rolled along the sea, 



His hopes a meteor, and his life a spark 



That shone and dazzled and then all was dark. 



Yet these, throughout the devious path he trod, 

 Led him by chastening upwards to his God. 

 " I feel my friends;" 'Twas thus his tale he told, 

 ' Have felt the stranger's charity is cold : 

 ' It led me when the orphan found my door 

 ' To glad his lispings from my little store, 

 ' And point, meanwhile, to Him the Lord of all, 

 6 Whose ear is open when the ravens call. 

 6 Or when the widow, with her mild appeal 

 Turned to my heart from hearts that could not feel 

 4 1 hear, when thus my arm is stretched to save, 

 ' My sainted Mary bless me from her grave." 



4 And when the patriarch bishop on my head 



' His reverend hands, in holy ritual, spread 



i And bade. ' Be instant.' Bade me preach and call, 



6 In time or out of season, unto all. 



c It minds me turn, nor scorn the world's light throng 



' All pale and pensive as I muse along." 



We felt, all felt, as weeping round his bier 



The holiest of all feelings, God is here. Eos. 



