1394. THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thine hand-
To doubt and fear give thou no heed-
Broad-cast it o'er the land.

Beside all waters sow,

The highway furrows stockDrop it where thorns and thistles grow, Scatter it on the rock.

The good, the fruitful ground

Expect not here nor there, O'er hill and dale by plots 'tis found: Go forth, then, everywhere.

Thou know'st not which may thriveThe late or early sown;

Grace keeps the precious germs alive, When and wherever strown.

And duly shall appear,

In verdure, beauty, strength,
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,
And the full corn at length.

Thou canst not toil in vain

Cold, heat, and moist, and dry
Shall foster and mature the grain
For garners in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end,

The day of God is come,
The angel-reapers shall descend,

And heaven cry "Harvest home!"
James Montgomery.-Born 1771, Died 1854.

1395.—BETH GÊLERT, OR THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewelyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer,
"Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last
Llewelyn's horn to hear.

Oh where doth faithful Gêlert roam,
The flower of all his race;

So true, so brave-a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board

The faithful Gêlert fed;

He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord, And sentinel'd his bed.

In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John;

But now no Gêlert could be found, And all the chase rode on.

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells

The gallant chidings rise,

All Snowden's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!

That day Llewelyn little loved

The chase of hart and hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied,

Bounding his lord to greet.

But, when he gain'd his castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,

His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.

Onward, in haste, Llewelyn pass'd,
And on went Gêlert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view.

O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stain'd covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He call'd his child-no voice replied-
He search'd with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,

But nowhere found his child.

"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devour'd,"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gélert's side.

His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,

Some slumberer waken'd nigh:

What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry!

Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had miss'd,

All glowing from his rosy sleep,

The cherub boy he kiss'd.

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewelyn's heir:

1397.-ON THE BIRTH OF THE
PRINCESS ROYAL.

Behold where thou dost lie,
Heeding naught, remote on high!
Naught of all the news we sing

Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;
Naught of planet's love nor people's;
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Carolling of thee and thine,

As if heaven had rain'd them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,
Nor the doctor's learned looks,
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp

His finger with a tiny clasp;

Nor dost thou know thy very mother's Balmy bosom from another's,

Though thy small blind eyes pursue it ;
Nor the arms that draw thee to it;
Nor the eyes that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee!

Leigh Hunt.-Born 1784, Died 1859.

1398.-TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways:
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,

These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,

I cannot bear the gentleness—
The tears are in their bed.

Ah! firstborn of thy mother,

When life and hope were new, Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father, too;

My light where'er I go, My bird, when prison-bound, My hand in hand companion-no, My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say "He has departed

"His voice"-"his face "-"is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on;

Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such wo,
Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!
This silence too the while-
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering as a smile:
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear.
Like parting wings of cherubim,
Who say,
We've finish'd here."

66

Leigh Hunt.-Born 1784, Died 1859.

1399.-TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,

When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon,

Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune

Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong

At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth

To sing in thoughtful cars this natural songIn-doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. Leigh Hunt.-Born 1784, Died 1859.

Mix'd with our sweet juices, Whether man or May-fly profit of the balm ; As fair fingers heal'd

Knights from the olden field,

We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.

Even the terror, poison,

Hath its plea for blooming;

Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.

And oh our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey-maker,

What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms

How the feasting fumes,

Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!

The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,

And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.

See those tops, how beauteous!
What fair service duteous

Round some idol waits, as on their lord the
Nine.

Elfin court 't would seem,

And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine.

To expound such wonder
Human speech avails not,

Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.

Think of all these treasures,
Matchless works and pleasures,

Every one a marvel, more than thought can

say;

Then think in what bright showers We thicken fields and bowers,

In any cell you run, dear,

Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show: What! you become a nun, my dear? I'll not believe it, no!

II.

If you become a nun, dear,
The bishop Love will be;
The Cupids every one, dear,

Will chant, "We trust in thee!"
The incense will go sighing,
The candles fall a dying,

The water turn to wine:
What! you go take the vows, my dear?
You may-but they'll be mine.

Leigh Hunt.-Born 1784, Died 1859.

1402.-ABOU BEN ADHEM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou ?"-The vision raised its
head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd-"The names of those who love

the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou; "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel.-Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light, And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! Leigh Hunt.-Born 1784, Died 1859.

1403.-JAFFAR.

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a
peer.

Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good, and e'en the bad might say,
Ordain'd that no man living from that day
Should dare to speak his name on pain of
death.

All Araby and Persia held their breath.