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]