The Village Preacher.

"How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

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Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

R. BROWNING.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

EAR yonder copse where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claim allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all:
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt its new fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;

"Oh, Let Me Ring the Bell!"

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heavèn.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

"OH, LET ME RING THE BELL!"

MISSIONARY far away

Beyond the Southern Sea,

Was sitting in his house one day

With Bible on his knee;

When suddenly he heard a rap

Upon the chamber door,
And opening, there stood a boy
Of some ten years or more.

He was a bright and happy child,
With cheeks of ruddy hue,

And eyes that 'neath their lashes smiled,
And glittered like the dew.

He held his little form erect

In boyish sturdiness,

But on his lips you could detect
Traces of gentleness.

"Dear sir," he said in native tongue,

"I do so want to know

If something for the house of God
You'll kindly let me do."

"What can you do, my little boy?"

The missionary said;

And as he spoke he laid his hand
Upon the youthful head.

The missionary kindly looked
Upon that upturned face,

Where hope, and fear, and wistfulness
United, left a trace.

And gladly did he grant the boon;

The boy had pleaded well,

And to the eager child he said,

"Yes, you shall ring the bell!"

The Fountain.

Oh, what a proud and happy heart

He carried to his home,

And how impatiently he longed

For the Sabbath-day to come!

He rang the bell, he went to school,
The Bible learned to read,

And in his youthful heart was sown
The Gospel's precious seed.

And now to other heathen lands
He's gone, of Christ to tell;
And yet his first young mission was
To ring the Sabbath bell.

ANON.

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THE FOUNTAIN.

E talked with open heart and tongue
Affectionate and true-

A pair of friends, though I was young,

And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke,

And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew," said I, "let us match

This water's pleasant tune,

With some old border song, or catch,

That suits a summer noon.