"Poor little lamb of the sheepfold! Unlovely and feeble it grew; But it wandered away to the mountains, And was fairer the further it flew. I followed with hurrying feet At the call of its pitiful bleat, And precious, with wonderful charms, I caught it at last in my arms, And bore it far back to its keep, And kissed it and put it to sleep. "Poor little vagrant from Heaven! It wandered away from the fold, And its weakness and danger endowed it With value more precious than gold. Oh happy the day when it came, And my heart learned its beautiful name! Oh happy the hour when I fed This waif of the angels with bread! And the lamb that the Shepherd had missed Was sheltered and nourished and kissed!" XVII. To Philip, Mildred was a child, Or a fair angel, to be kept From all things earthly undenied, One who upon his bosom slept, And only waked to be beguiled From loneliness and homely care By love's unfailing ministry; No toil of his was she to share, No burden hers, that should not be Left for his stronger hands to bear. His love enwrapped her as a robe, Which seemed, by its supernal charm, To shield from every poisoned probe Of earthly pain and earthly harm This one choice creature of the globe. The love he bore her lifted him Into a bright, sweet atmosphere That filled with beauty to the brim The world beneath him, far and near, And stained the clouds that draped its rim. Toil was not toil, except in name; Care was not care, but only means To feed with holy oil the flame That warmed her soul, and lit the scenes Through which her figure went and came. Her smile of welcome was his meed; Her presence was his great reward; He questioned sadly if, indeed, He loved more loyally his Lord, Or if his Lord felt greater need. And Mildred, vexed, misunderstood, Knew all his love, but might not tell How in his thought, so large and good, And in his heart, there did not dwell The measure of her womanhood. She knew the girlish charm would fade; She knew the rapture would abate; That years would follow when the maid, Merged in the matron, and sedate With change, and sitting in the shade Of a great nature, would become As poor and pitiful a thing As an old idol, and as dumb,-- A clog upon an upward wing,-- A value stricken from the sum Which a true woman's hand would raise To mighty numbers, and endow With kingly power and crowning praise. She must be mate of his; but how? And, dreaming of a thousand ways Her hands would work, her feet would tread, She thought to match him as a man! His books should be her daily bread; She would run swiftly where he ran, And follow closely where he led. XVIII. Since time began, the perfect day Has robbed the morrow of its wealth, And squandered, in its lavish sway, The balm and beauty of the stealth, And left its golden throne in gray.