Such doubts and fears were common to her state,
Being with child, but when her child was born,
Then her new child was as herself renewed,
Then the new mother came about her heart,
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,
And that mysterious instinct wholly died."

But Enoch had been cast upon a sunny, fruitful island, far out of the common track of ships, where he and two others, saved also from the wreck, were the only men. These died, and left him in his solitude.

"There often as he watched or seemed to watch,

So still, the golden lizard on him passed,
A phantom made of many phantoms moved
Before him haunting him, or he himself
Moved haunting people, things and places, known
Far in a darker isle beyond the line;
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house,
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes,
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely hall,
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill
November dawns and dewy-gloaming downs,
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,
And the low moan of leaden-colored seas.

At last there came a ship, driven as his had been by baffling winds out of her course, that touched for water at this island. So he was brought home, and—

"Moving up the coast, they landed him, Even in that harbor whence he sailed before. "There Enoch spoke no word to any one, But homeward-home-what home? had he a

home?

His home, he walked. Bright was that afternoon,
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm,
Where either haven opened on the deeps,
Rolled a sea-haze and whelmed the world in gray;
Cut off the length of highway on before,
And left but narrow breadth to left and right
Of withered holt or tilth or pasturage.
On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped
Disconsolate, and through the dripping haze
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down ;
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;
Last, as it seemed, a great mist-blotted light
Flared on him, and he came upon the place.
"Then down the long street having slowly
stolen,

His heart foreshadowing all calamity,

His eyes upon the stones, he reached the home
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes
In those far-off seven happy years were born;
But finding neither light nor murmur there
(A bill of sale gleamed thro' the drizzle) crept
Still downward thinking dead or dead to me!"
He shrank unknown into an old tavern by
the pool, where the garrulous hostess-

"Told him, with other annals of the port, Not knowing-Enoch was so brown, so bowed,

"But Enoch yearned to see her face again; 'If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy.' So the thought Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth, Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. At evening, when the dull November day There did a thousand memories roll upon him, There he sat down gazing on all below; Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life.

"For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street The latest house to landward; but behind, With one small gate that opened on the waste, Flourished a little garden square and walled; And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it : But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole That which he better might have shunned, if Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence griefs

Like his have worse or better,

Enoch saw.

"For cups and silver on the burnished board Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who reared his cressy arms, Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed : And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

"Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love,— Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things

heard,

Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and

feared

To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

"He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

"And there he would have knelt, but that his knees

Were feeble, so that falling prone, he dug
His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.

Too hard to bear! why did they take me
hence?

O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, thou
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle,
Uphold me, father, in my loneliness

A little longer! aid me, give me strength
Not to tell her, never to let her know.
Help me not to break in upon her peace.
My children too! must I not speak to these?
They know me not. I should betray myself,
Never no father's kiss for me—the girl
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.'

We have quoted much of this heroic tale, and must yet quote the close. Enoch kept his secret during the succeeding days of sickness; but when death was near, that he might send his Annie future comfort in a certain token of his death, and of his perfect sympathy of love in perfect knowledge of her life's history, he told his secret to the mistress of the inn, sworn to keep it inviolate until he died.

"I charge you now, When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; Save for the bar between us, loving her As when she laid her head beside my own. And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. And tell my son that I died blessing him. And say to Philip that I blest him too;

He never meant us any thing but good.
But if my children care to see me dead,
Who hardly knew me living, let them come,
I am their father; but she must not come,
For my dead face would vex her after-life.
And now there is but one of all my blood,
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be :
This hair is his she cut it off and gave it,
And I have borne it with me all these years,
And thought to bear it with me to my grave;
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,
My babe in bliss, wherefore, when I am gone,
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:
It will moreover be a token to her,
That I am he.'

"He ceased; and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promising all, That once again he rolled his eyes upon her Repeating all he wished, and once again She promised.

"Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumbered motionless and pale, And Miriam watched and dozed at intervals, There came so loud a calling of the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang. He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad Crying with a loud voice a sail! a sail!

I am saved;' and so fell back and spoke no more."

"So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him, the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funeral."

Extracts, however full, cannot convey a full sense of the beauty of this poem, for so perfect is the accord of every note with its pure harmony, that every part of it is life of its life, flesh of its flesh.

We must not quote from the next poem, Aylmer's Field," though we are tempted sorely into echo of its noble scorn of scorn, of the warmth of Christian sympathy for all that is good and true in life that dashes aside with a strong hand the gilded dust of pride. Enough for its purpose has been said and cited. Clearly, a book like this is one that maintains the place of its author, not only as chief among the English poets of his time, but among those chief poets of all times who have been most closely in accord with whatever gives worth to their country.

IFrom The Churchman's Family Magazine. FAMILY.

CHAPTER I.

IN SEARCH OF A MISSION.

"Thou didst refuse the daily round

Of useful, patient love,

And longedst for some great emprise

Thy spirit high to prove."-C. M. N.

"Che mi sedea con l'antica Rachele."-DAnte. "It is very kind in the dear mother." "But what, Rachel? Don't you like it? She so enjoyed choosing it for you."

"Oh, yes, it is a perfect thing in its way. Don't say a word to her; but if you are consulted for my next birthday present, Grace, couldn't you suggest that one does cease to be a girl?

ting up her hands and tossing her head, but her sister held her still.

"You know brides always take liberties. Please, dear, let it stay till the mother has been in, and pray don't talk before her of being so very old."

66

No, I'll not be a shock to her. We will silently assume our immunities, and she will acquiesce if they come upon her gradually."

Grace looked somewhat alarmed, being perhaps in some dread of immunities, and aware that Rachel's silence would in any one else have been talkativeness.

"Ah, ha! If Rachel be an old maid, what is Grace? Come, my dear, resign yourself! There is nothing more unbecoming than want of perception of the close of young-lady hood." "Of course, I know we are not quite young girls now," said Grace, half perplexed, half annoyed.

"Exactly. From this moment we are established as the maiden sisters of Avonmouth, husband and wife to one another, as maiden pairs always are."

"Then thus let me crown our bridal," quoth Grace, placing on her sister's head the wreath of white roses.

"Treacherous child!" cried Rachel, put

comely middle age.

Birthday greetings, congratulations, and thanks followed, and the mother looked critically at the position of the wreath, and Rachel for the first time turned to the glass and met a set of features of an irregular, characteristic cast, brow low and broad, nose retroussé, with large singularly sensitive nostrils quivering like those of a high-bred horse at any emotion, full pouting lips, round cheeks glowing with the freshest red, eyes widely opened, dark, deep gray and decidedly prominent, though curtained with thick black lashes. The glossy chestnut hair partook of the redundance and vigor of the whole being, and the roses hung on it gracefully, though not in congruity with the thick winter dress of blue and black tartan, still looped up over the dark petticoat and hose, and stout, highheeled boots, that like the gray cloak and felt hat bore witness to the early walk. Grace's countenance and figure were in the same style, though without so much of mark or anima

"Yes, my dear, it looks very well; and now you will oblige me by not wearing that black lace thing, that looks fit for your grandmother."

"Poor Lovedy Kelland's aunt made it, mother, and it was very expensive, and wouldn't sell."

ing buds! Satisfied, when I know that every alley and lane of town or country reeks with vice and corruption, and that there is one cry for workers with brains and with purses! And here am I, able and willing, only longing to task myself to the uttermost, yet tethered down to the merest mockery of usefulness by conventionalities. I am a young lady, forsooth!—I must not be out late; I must not put forth my views; I must not choose my ac

or not."

"Oh, yes, dear mother, I'll bind my hair when you bid me do it, and really these buds do credit to the makers. I wonder whether they cost them as dear in health as lace does," she added, taking off the flowers and examining them with a grave, sad look.

being, growing old in a ridiculous fiction of prolonged childhood, affecting those graces of so-called sweet seventeen that I never hadbecause, because why? Is it for any better reason than because no mother can bear to believe her daughter no longer on the lists for matrimony? Our dear mother does not tell herself that this is the reason; but she is un

"I have done with white muslin," said Rachel, rousing from her reverie. "It is an affectation of girlish simplicity not becoming at our age."

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• Oh, Rachel! thought Grace, in despair; but to her great relief, in at that moment filed the five maids, the coachman, and butler; and the mother began to read prayers. Breakfast over, Rachel gathered up her various gifts, and betook herself to a room on the ground-floor, with all the appliances of an ancient schoolroom. Rather dreamily she took out a number of copy-books, and began to write copies in them in large, text hand. "And this is all I am doing for my fellowcreatures," she muttered, half-aloud. "One class of half-grown lads, and those grudged to me! Here is the world around one mass of misery and evil! Not a paper do I take up but I see something about wretchedness and crime; and here I sit with health, strength, and knowledge, and able to do nothing; nothing, at the risk of breaking my mother's heart! I have pottered about cottages, and taught at schools in the dilettante way of the young lady who thinks it her duty to be charitable; and I am told that is my duty, and that I may be satisfied. Satisfied, when I see children cramped in soul, destroyed in body, that fine ladies may wear. lace trimmings!

erto given way to her wish. I mean to give way still, in a measure; but I am five-andtwenty, and I will no longer be withheld from some path of usefulness! I will judge for myself, and when my mission has declared itself, I will not be withheld from it by any scruple that does not approve itself to my reason and conscience. If it be only a domestic mission,-say, the care of Fanny, poor, dear helpless Fanny; I would that I knew she was safe,-I would not despise it; I would throw. myself into it, and regard the training her and forming her boys as a most sacred office. It would not be too homely for me. But I had far rather become the founder of some establishment that might relieve women from the oppressive task-work thrown on them in all their branches of labor. Oh, what a worthy ambition!

Left

for her to come into at once,-Myrtlewood, if possible. Is it let, Grace?"

"Oh! I can't tell. They got past my reckoning long ago. I only know they are all boys, and that this baby is a girl." "Baby! Ah, poor Fanny, I feared that was the reason she did not come sooner.

"Yes, and she has been very ill; she always is, I believe; but there is very little about it. Fanny never could write letters; she only just says, 'I have not been able to attempt a letter sooner, though my dear little girl is five weeks old to-day. Think of the daughter coming at last, too late for her dear father, who had so wished for one. She is very healthy, I am thankful to say; and I am now so much better that the doctor says may sail next week. Major Keith has taken our cabins in the Voluta, and soon after you receive this, I hope to be showing you my dear boys. They are such good, affectionate fellows; but I am afraid they would be too much for my dear aunt, and our party is so large; so the major and I both think it will be the best way for you to take a house for me for six months. I should like Myrtlewood best, if it is to be had. I have told Conrade all about it, and how pretty it is; and it is so near you that I think there I can be as happy as ever I can be again in this world, and have your advice for the dear children.'" "Poor darling! she seems but a child her

From that time little had been known about her; her mother had continued with her, but the two Mrs. Curtises had never been congenial or intimate; and Fanny was never a full nor willing correspondent, feeling perhaps the difficulty of writing under changed circumstances. Her husband had been in various commands in the colonies, without returning to England; and all that was known of her was a general impression that she had much ill-health and numerous children, and was tended like an infant by her bustling mother and doting husband. More than half a year back, tidings had come of the almost sudden death of her mother; and about three months subsequently, one of the officers of Sir Stephen's staff had written to announce that the good old general had been killed by a fall from his horse, while on a round of inspection at a distance from home. The widow was then completely prostrated by the shock, but promised to write as soon as she was able; and this was the fulfilment of that promise, bringing the assurance that Fanny was coming back with her little ones to the home of her childhood.

Of that home, Grace and Rachel were the joint-heiresses, though it was owned by the mother for her life. It was a pretty little estate of some three or four thousand a year, and the house was perched on a beautiful promontory, running out into the sea, and enclosing one side of a bay, where a small fishing-village had recently expanded into a quiet watering-place, esteemed by some for its remoteness from railways, and for the calm and simplicity that were yearly diminished by its increasing popularity. It was the family fashion to look down from their crag at the straight esplanade with pity and contempt for the ruined loneliness of the pebbly beach;