And though he heard the solemn voice, And saw the beard of gray, The teacher’s thought was strangely wrought “My yearning heart to-day “Wept for this youth whose wayward will Against persuasion strove, Compelling force, love’s last resource, To stablish laws of love.” The church, a phantasm, vanished soon; What shadowy picture then? In classic gloom of alcoved room An author plied his pen. “My idlest lad!” the master said, Filled with a new surprise, “Shall I behold _his_ name enrolled Among the great and wise?” The vision of a cottage home Was now through tears descried: A mother’s face illumed the place Her influence sanctified. “A miracle! a miracle! This matron well I know! She was a wild and careless child Not half an hour ago. “Now, when she to her children speaks Of duty’s golden rule, Her lips repeat, in accents sweet, My words to her at school.” Dim on the teacher’s brain returned The humble school-room old; Upon the wall did darkness fall, The evening air was cold. “A dream!” the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor, And, whistling low and soft and slow, He locked the school-house door. His musing heart was reconciled To love’s divine delays: “The bread forth cast returns at last, Lo, after many days!” BY THEIR FRUITS. Above the clash of counter creeds These gospel accents swell: Whoever doeth righteous deeds Hath read his Bible well. Like fragrant blooms of lavish spring Are adoration’s vows; The tree that pleases God will bring Fair fruitage on its boughs. PESTALOZZI. For the 150th anniversary of the birthday of Pestalozzi, celebrated in Cincinnati, January 13, 1896. Through vasty shades of savage Occident The Ohio groped what time the man I sing Took first quick draught of that free element That thrills Swiss life, and felt the quivering Of Alpine light which welcomed him to earth. In Zurich then was born--sublime event-- A man-child in whose soul new gospels waited birth. The world is ever plastic in the hand Of humble saviours fearless of the cross: One self-forgetting hero may command And mould the future, scorning present loss: Meek Pestalozzi, herding in his mind Helvetia’s strayling little children, planned By their salvation surely to redeem mankind. Much hope, more love possessed him, but most grief; His heart, a mourner, sobbed o’er common woe: Did the Almighty slumber or seem deaf To wails ascending from His poor below? Nay, Heaven remembers every bitter tear, Yet mundane ills must seek on earth relief; Lo, the Divine hath found a human volunteer.