She lived in a little house by the moor stream,
And her window was gilt with the morning's first beam.
The ivy had climbed all the way to the thatch,
And the woodbine was whispering over the latch,
Where the rose and the myrtle were lovingly blent
On the walls of the dwelling of old Granny Bent.

There neatness and cleanness with order combined,
And her pewter was bright as the spade of a hind :
The cat by the cricket coiled up in its place,

Where the sands of the hour-glass were running their race:
And the musk in the window out-wafted its scent,
To comfort the croonings of old Granny Bent.

The parish allowed her the dole of its poor,

Yet the beggar unaided ne'er passed from her door :
And 'twas sweet, when the elder came out by the gate,
As in the low porch-way she silently sate,

Gazing down the wide moor on the twilight's descent,
To hear the bright needles of old Granny Bent.

She read but one book in the heat and the cold :
Its pages were tear-marked, its covers were old,
And over the leaves above and below
Some joy-lines were visible, made long ago.
Its precepts she pondered wherever she went :
The BIBLE was precious to old Granny Bent.

When the Sabbath bells sounded along the green
She went to her meeting-house under the trees;
And here I have seen her with trust in her eye,
When waiting in silence for HIM to pass by;
Imploring in breathings the Spirit's descent,
Who came in His beauty to old Granny Bent.

leas,

One moaning I missed her. The warning had come,
And the Angel of Mercy had summoned her home.
Below we were seeking the aid of His rod :
On high she was hymning the praises of God.
And this was my thought on the solemn event:
What a change up in glory for old Granny Bent!
June, 1876.

A

A FRAGMENT.

BOY came down from a cot of reed,

And tuned his pipe by the village mead.
The notes were sweet as the summer breeze
That woke the melodies of the trees;
And we wiped our eyes to hear his strain,
Now high, now low, with a soft refrain,
As surely Heaven-inspired and true
As the lark's loved lay in the circling blue.
But his country clans, who knew him well,
Paid little heed to his soothing shell,
Because, we ween, he was lowly born,
And his sire had never a title worn.
So they turned away from his simple song
For a blustering trumpeter in the throng,
Who blew a blast like the noise of strife

In the well-thronged mart when tongues are rife ;
And the boy was left by the village trees
To play alone to the birds and bees.

A worker stood with the sons of men :

He could use his hands, he could use his pen :
But he boasted not that his strength was great,
Nor bragged it over his trudging mate,
But bent with quietness to his toil

From moon to moon in the world's turmoil;
And so still his tongue, and so slow his pace,

That the clamorous cried, ""Tis a losing race! "
And the coxcomb scoffed, and the pompous brayed,
And the swaggerer slashed him into shade.

Yet stranger far than all beside

That worth was so misled by pride:

For they turned their backs on the quiet man,
And after the rollicking roarers ran,

Not knowing or heeding the weak from the strong,

But moved by the wind which swayeth the throng:
And so with the tears on his high cheek-bone
The quiet worker was left alone.

The years pass by like a tale at eve,

Where the vine round the lattice its tendrils weave;
And the noisy trumpeter was not found,
Nor our ears assailed with his furious sound;
But the sweet-harped boy at man's estate
Had gathered round him the good and great,
Who hailed his hymns of humble birth
As a heaven-born gift to the weary earth.
And the clamourer, too, and the braggart bare
Had passed away like the clouds which were
But yester-eve on our gladdened view,
Leaving no trace on the wondrous blue :
But the quiet worker with hand and pen
Had won the esteem of his fellow-men,
And brought a blessing upon
his race

By deeds of love and acts of grace.

So knew I that sweetness and meekness might be Overborne for a season, to triumph more free.

DAN AND HIS FATHER.

HE wise will learn from simpleness,
The reaping of a sheaf,

A stray note floating through the woods,
The rustling of a leaf.

And lessons of Divinest lore
Beyond the sage's reach,

Blest by the Spirit of His Son,
A child may often teach.

The day declined, and little Dan
Put on his cap to go,

When up the distant southern sky
A great cloud travelled slow.
Then to the door his granny came,
And glanced across the leas,
And told him he had better stay,
For voices filled the breeze.

And suddenly the lightning streamed
Against the window-sills,

And thunder answered thunder-peal
Among the echoing hills.

Great drops of rain came pattering down,
The eaves with water ran,
And granny from the settle spoke,
"How wilt thee get home, Dan?"

Just then a step was heard outside,
And in the solemn roar

Which filled the glens and shadowy creeks
Dan's father oped the door.

He wore a long coat to his heels,
So very snug to see :

He looked at Dan, and opened it :
"Now step in here," said he.

So Dan went in, and all was dark :
He grasped his father's hand,

As they went plashing through the pools
And o'er the sodden sand.

And though he could not see the earth,
Nor yet the heavens above,
His trust was in his father's care,
Was in his father's love.

And soon he heard the wicket-gate
Amid the falling rain;

Then that which gladdened him much more,
The latch click in the lane.

And now, as quickly as could be,

The coat was opened wide : And Dan was home before the fire, With mother at his side.

Should we not learn from truths like this To banish sad despair,

And, whether it be dark or light,

To trust our FATHER'S care?

Still hear I psalms where wells their treasures render,

And rush and rock abound,

As sorrow-healing and as sweetly tender

As when my harp I found.