Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son:
"As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising G.o.d, the Pope"s great way.
"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises G.o.d from Peter"s dome."
Said Theocrite, "Would G.o.d that I Might praise Him that great way, and die!"
Night pa.s.sed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone.
With G.o.d a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day.
G.o.d said in heaven, "Nor day nor night Now brings the voice of my delight."
Then Gabriel, like a rainbow"s birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth;
Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well;
And morning, evening, noon, and night, Praised G.o.d in place of Theocrite.
And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling"s hue:
The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay:
And ever o"er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content.
(He lived G.o.d"s will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.)
G.o.d said, "A praise is in mine ear; There is no doubt in it, no fear:
"So sing old worlds, and so New worlds that from my footstool go.
"Clearer loves sound other ways: I miss my little human praise."
Then forth sprang Gabriel"s wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
"Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter"s dome.
In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery,
With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope Theocrite:
And all his past career Came back upon him clear,
Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed;
And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer:
And, rising from the sickness drear, He grew a priest, and now stood here.
To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned.
"I bore thee from thy craftsman"s cell, And set thee here; I did not well.
"Vainly I left my angel sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year.
"Thy voice"s praise seemed weak; it dropped-- Creation"s chorus stopped!
"Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain.
"With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation"s pausing strain.
"Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy!"
Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter"s dome.
One vanished as the other died: They sought G.o.d side by side.
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
They grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one home with glee; Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night O"er each fair, sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight: Where are those sleepers now?
One, midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one; He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O"er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressed Above the n.o.ble slain; He wrapped the colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one--o"er her the myrtle showers Its leaves by soft winds fanned; She faded midst Italian flowers-- The last of that fair band.
And parted thus, they rest who played Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee.
They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth; Alas for love! if thou wert all, And nought beyond, O earth!
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.
[Ill.u.s.tration]