An outcast thrown in sorrow's way, A fugitive that knew no sin, Yet in lone places forced to stray-- Men would not take the stranger in. Yet peace, though much himself he mourned, Was all to others he returned. * * * * * His presence was a peace to all, He bade the sorrowful rejoice. Pain turned to pleasure at his call, Health lived and issued from his voice. He healed the sick and sent abroad The dumb rejoicing in the Lord. The blind met daylight in his eye, The joys of everlasting day; The sick found health in his reply; The cripple threw his crutch away. Yet he with troubles did remain And suffered poverty and pain. Yet none could say of wrong he did, And scorn was ever standing bye; Accusers by their conscience chid, When proof was sought, made no reply. Yet without sin he suffered more Than ever sinners did before. _Song's Eternity_ What is song's eternity? Come and see. Can it noise and bustle be? Come and see. Praises sung or praises said Can it be? Wait awhile and these are dead-- Sigh, sigh; Be they high or lowly bred They die. What is song's eternity? Come and see. Melodies of earth and sky, Here they be. Song once sung to Adam's ears Can it be? Ballads of six thousand years Thrive, thrive; Songs awaken with the spheres Alive. Mighty songs that miss decay, What are they? Crowds and cities pass away Like a day. Books are out and books are read; What are they? Years will lay them with the dead-- Sigh, sigh; Trifles unto nothing wed, They die. Dreamers, mark the honey bee; Mark the tree Where the blue cap "_tootle tee_" Sings a glee Sung to Adam and to Eve Here they be. When floods covered every bough, Noah's ark Heard that ballad singing now; Hark, hark, "_Tootle tootle tootle tee_"-- Can it be Pride and fame must shadows be? Come and see-- Every season own her own; Bird and bee Sing creation's music on; Nature's glee Is in every mood and tone Eternity. _The Old Cottagers_ The little cottage stood alone, the pride Of solitude surrounded every side. Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall; A garden with its hawthorn hedge was all The space between.--Green light did pass Through one small window, where a looking-glass Placed in the parlour, richly there revealed A spacious landscape and a blooming field. The pasture cows that herded on the moor Printed their footsteps to the very door, Where little summer flowers with seasons blow And scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow. The cuckoo that one listens far away Sung in the orchard trees for half the day; And where the robin lives, the village guest, In the old weedy hedge the leafy nest Of the coy nightingale was yearly found, Safe from all eyes as in the loneliest ground; And little chats that in bean stalks will lie A nest with cobwebs there will build, and fly Upon the kidney bean that twines and towers Up little poles in wreaths of scarlet flowers.