"O happy brook!" thought little Christel,
"You have done some good this summer's day, You have made the flower look fresh and well"; Then she rose, and went on her way.
But she saw, as she walked by the side of the brook,
Some great rough stones that troubled its course,
And the gurgling water seemed to say, “Look!
I struggle, and tumble, and murmur hoarse!
"How these stones obstruct my road!
How I wish they were off, and gone;
Then I could flow, as once I flowed,
Singing in silvery undertone."
Then little Christel, as light as a bird,
Put off the shoes from her young white feet; She moves two stones, she comes to the third, The brook already sings, "Thanks to you,
O, then she hears the lark in the skies,
And thinks, "What is it to God he says?"
And she stumbles, and falls, and cannot rise,
For the water stifles her downward face.
The little brook flows on, as before,
The little lark sings with as sweet a sound;
The little babe crows at the cottage door;
And the red rose blooms, but Christel lies drowned.
Come in softly, this is the room;
Is not that an innocent face?
Yes, those flowers give a faint perfume,
Think child, of Heaven, and the Lord His grace.
Three at the right, and three at the left,
Two at the feet, and two at the head,
The tapers burn. The friends bereft,
Have cried till their eyes are swollen and red.
Who would have thought it when little Christel
Pondered on what the preacher had told?
But the good wise God does all things well,
And the fair young creature lies dead and cold.
Then a little stream crept into the place,
And rippled up to the coffin's side,
And touched the corpse on its pale round face,
And kissed the eyes till they trembled wide:
Saying, "I am a river of joy from Heaven;
You helped the brook, and I help you,
I sprinkle your brow with life-drops seven,
I bathe your eyes with healing dew."
Then a rose-branch in through the window came,
And colored her cheeks and lips with red;
"I remember, and Heaven does the same,'
Was all that the faithful rose-branch said.
Then a bright small form to her cold neck clung,
It breathed on her, till her breast did fill,
Saying, "I am a cherub fond and young,
And I saw who breathed on the baby's mill."
Then little Christel sat up and smiled,
And said, "Who put these flowers in my And rubbed her eyes, poor innocent child; Not being able to understand.
But soon she heard the big bell of the church
Give the hour, which made her say,
"Ah! I have slept and dreamed in the porch;
It is a very drowsy day."
OBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attire,
With retinue of many a knight and squire,
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes
De sede, et exaltavit humiles";
And slowly lifting up his kingly head
He to a learned clerk beside him said,
"What mean these words?" The clerk made answer
"He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree."
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,
"Tis well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;
For unto priests and people be it known,
There is no power can push me from my throne!"
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.
When he awoke, it was already night;
The church was empty, and there was no light,
Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around,
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
And uttered awful threat'nings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints.
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls.
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!
At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"
Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
Open: 'tis I, the King, art thou afraid?"
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
A man rushed by him at a single stride,
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire,
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on, and thundered at the palace gate,
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet-room,
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring;
King Robert's self in features, form, and height,
But all transfigured with angelic light!
It was an Angel; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Angel recognize.
A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
Who met his looks of anger and surprise
With the divine compassion of his eyes;
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