Last on till you're tall." And in whispersbecause it was old,

And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,

Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk

Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke.

Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,

While bleating of flocks and birds piping made sweeter the land,

And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to

the ferry,

"O Katie!" "O Katie!" "Come on, then!"

"Come on, then!" "For, see,

The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree" -"by the tree."

"By the tree." Ay, she mocked him again,

with her voice sweet and merry:

"Hie over!" "Hie over!"

the ferry"-"the ferry."

"You man of

"You man of the ferry-you man of-you man

of the ferry."

Ay, here-it was here that we woke her, the

Echo of old;

All life of that day seems an echo, and many

times told.

Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white

To that little old church? and will Oliver meet me anon?

Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over-passed on?

Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light

I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry

Now she mocks the man's tone with "Hie over! Hie over the ferry!"

"And Katie." "And Katie."

the glowworms to-night,

"Art out with

My Katie?" "My Katie." For gladness I break into laughter

And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;

Again, some one else-Oh, how softly!-with

laughter comes after,

Comes after-with laughter comes after.

JEAN INGELOW.

POOR SUSAN'S DREAM

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,

Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her?

She sees

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale

Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,

The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but

they fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

FANCY

Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring Fancy's knell:
I'll begin it,-Ding, dong, bell.
Ding, dong, bell.

SHAKESPEARE.

TWO HOME-COMINGS

I. THE GOOD WOMAN MADE WELCOME IN
HEAVEN

Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee,
Glad at their own home now to meet thee.
All thy good works which went before,
And waited for thee at the door,

Shall own thee there; and all in one
Weave a constellation

Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,
Shall build up thy triumphant brows.

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,
And thy pains sit bright upon thee:
All thy sorrows here shall shine,

And thy sufferings be divine.

Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,

And wrongs repent to diadems.

Even thy deaths shall live, and new
Dress the soul which late they slew.

Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars
As keep account of the Lamb's wars.

RICHARD CRASHAW.