280

TINTERN ABBEY.

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee and in after years
When these wild extacies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of nature hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, Oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake."

WORDSWORTH.

EARLY piety is often EMINENT piety.

Che Mother's Dream.

“AND I will give him the Bright and Morning Star.”

METHOUGHT once more to my wishful eye,
My beautiful boy had come :

My sorrow was gone-my cheek was dry,
And gladness was round my home!

I saw the form of my dear lost child:
All kindled with life he came,

And he spoke in his own sweet voice and smiled,
As soon as I named his name.

The raiment he wore looked heavenly white,
As the feathery snow comes down,
And warm as it shone in the softened light,
That fell from his dazzling crown.

His brow was bright with a joy serene-
His cheek with the deathless bloom,
That only the eye of my soul hath seen,
When looking beyond the tomb.

The odour of flowers from that fair land,

Where we deem that our blest ones are, Seemed borne in his skirts, and his small right hand Was holding a radiant star!

His feet unshod, as from out the shroud,

Were pure as the opening bell

Of the lilly and set on a folding cloud
Of glory that round him fell.

2L

24.

281

282

THE MOTHER'S DREAM.

I asked him where he had been so long,

Away from his mother's care-
Again to sing me his infant song,
And to kneel by my side in prayer.

He said "My mother the song I sing
Is not for an earthly ear—

I touch the harp with a golden string,
For the hosts of Heaven to hear.

"It was but a gentle fleeting breath,
That severed thy child from thee-
The fearful shadow in time called Death,
Hath ministered life to me.

"My voice in an angel choir I lift,
And high are the notes we raise :-
I hold the sign of a priceless gift-
And the giver who has our praise.

"The Bright and the Morning Star' is He,
Who bringeth eternal day;

And mother He giveth himself to thee,
To lighten thine earthly way.

"The race is short to a peaceful goal—
And He is never afar,

Who saith of the wise untiring soul,

I will give him the Morning Star!"

"Thy measure of care for me, was filled,
And pure to its crystal top-

For Faith from her silvery urn distilled,
And numbered every drop.

"Whilst thou wast teaching my lips to move,
And my heart to rise in prayer,

THE MOTHER'S DREAM.

I learned the way to a home above,

And the home of thy child is there!

"The secret prayer thou hast made for me, That only thy God hath known,

Arose as incense, Holy, free,

And gathered around His throne.

"I filled my robe with the perfume sweet,
To shed them on this world's air,
As I held my brow by my Saviour's seat,
For the glorious crown I wear.

"And now in that blissful world of ours,

The waters of Life I drink,

Behold my feet as they've pressed the flowers,
That grow by the fountain's brink!

"No thorn is hidden to wound me there-
There's nothing like chill or blight,
Or sighing, to blend with the balmy air,
No sorrow, no care, no night."

No parting? I asked, in a burst of joy,
And the lovely illusion broke:

My rapture had banished my beauteous boy;
To a shadowy void I spoke.

Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams,
The Mother and Child may meet!

283

H. F. GOULD.

Thomas Ellwood.

THE journals of the early Friends or Quakers are invaluable. Little, it is true, can be said as a general thing of their literary merits. Their authors were plain, earnest men and women, chiefly intent upon the substance of things, and having withal a strong testimony to bear against carnal wit and outside show and ornament. Yet, even the scholar may well admire the power of certain portions of George Fox's Journal, where a strong spirit clothes its utterance in simple, downright Saxon words; the quiet and beautiful enthusiasm of Pennington; the torrent energy of Edward Burrough; the serene wisdom of Penn; the logical acuteness of Barclay; the honest truthfulness of Sewell; the wit and humour of John Roberts, (for even Quakerism had its apostolic jokers and drab-coated Robert Halls ;) and last, not least, the simple beauty of Woolman's Journal, the modest record of a life of good works and love.

Thomas Ellwood was born in 1639, in the little town of Crowell, in Oxfordshire. Old Walter, his father, was of " gentlemanly lineage," and held a commission of the peace under Charles I. One of his most intimate friends was Isaac Pennington, a gentleman of estate and good reputation, whose wife, the widow of Sir William Springette, was a lady of superior endowments. Her only daughter, Gulielma, was the playmate and companion of Thomas. On making this family a visit, in 1658, in company with his father, he was surprised to find that they had united with the Quakers, a sect then little known, and every where spoken against. Passing through the vista of nearly two centuries, let us cross the threshold, and look with the eyes of young Ellwood upon this Quaker family. It will doubtless give

us a good idea of the earnest and solemn spirit of that age of religious awakening.

"So great a change from a free, debonair, and courtly sort of