'Ay! and he had to college been, When you awoke me from my dream, 'God's blessing ever on the boy! The dearest woman man e'er yet So blest was as to wed!' PART II. MURESTON RECTORY, NOVEMBER 1867. THE DREAM LIVED OUT. AN old man sat beside the hearth, The wind sighed mournfully; It was a chilly autumn eve As drear as drear could be. The old man sat beside the hearth, He oftener cast a look; And now, as oft in twilight hour, How happy seemed those childish days, As if without a tear; With mother's gown to flee unto Whether in hope or fear; And to feel sure, whate'er the tale, Yet there were trials! that sad day When good old pussy died; And little Jack by fondest wile But by the empty basket sat, And half his heart out cried. And sadder day-it once had seemed And known whose heart was bleeding if But saddest far when, sent to school, And thankful felt no bullying boys But at all other boyish woes The old man smiled; and sighed E'en Westminster had precious grown, When, honour-crowned, he home returned To feel his mother's kiss, And hear her whisper to herself, 'But I expected this.' At college, too, home-lore had borne Honours, and honour's fruit; And school friends flocked the Senate House, But when his mother heard, she said, Then came the Fellowship, and then Now superseded; but it long First place with scholars took. He'd thought that very afternoon With which she had dared deride him For his silence ;-gay and free, Unawed by the gravity Of a youth on study spent, Of a manhood long unbent. Gracious, smiling, came the ghost Of the wife so long long lost; Seemed to take the age-chilled hand, Warm it with her currents free; 'Patience! for the time draws near And our son awaits you there, Husband more than ever dear! Think not that our lot was hard; God knew best; I am content; Bow you to the Father's hand, Humbly as at first you bent. Or-O husband, could it be? With his hands he clasped his face, Had grown more than he could bear; Lay upon an earthly son Made of human flesh and blood. She had vanished, or he waked, Gazed upon the sunken mound 'Neath which lay his buried twain. By that mound he would repeat Word for word that prayer for grace, And for this he set his face, But old Betty caught the stir, Sure! when now 'tis almost night ; I must say you wanted him; So she caught him, breathlessly, Ere he had unlatched the gate; Full of troubles-scarce can wait If, Sir, you are going far Home's so far, and it is late.' Master smiled, and gently said, 'Give poor Rachel White some tea, Then she will not mind, I think, So you need not anxious be.' Thus he reached the sunken mound, Threescore years and twelve ago! All her mother prayers out-prayed, By her husband and her son 'Neath St. Lois' chancel-shade. So he clasped his hands upon Lichened stone for mother's knee; But was never childhood's prayer Long wrestled he, sore bowed and bent Above the sunken stone; Till heart and soul joined in the cry, Thy Will, not mine, be done;' Then rose he, feeling wondrously No longer left alone. And, mid the struggle, lo! un-marked Earth's mists had rolled away; And, as he rose, across him fell One golden sunset ray; And lo! upon the sunken grave Ne'er had he seen the grave more fair, |