Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!" Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone, The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!" Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him, And of a voice like that of her who bore him, Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear! For heaven is love, as God himself is love; Thy work below shall be thy work above." And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place He saw the shining of an angel's face! 1864. . . . . . The Traveller broke the pause. "I've seen The Brothers down the long street steal, Black, silent, masked, the crowd between, And felt to doff my hat and kneel With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, For blessings on their pious care." Reader wiped his glasses: "Friends of mine, I'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine." THE CHANGELING. For the fairest maid in Hampton They needed not to search, Who saw young Anna Favor Come walking into church, Or bringing from the meadows, At set of harvest-day, The frolic of the blackbirds, The sweetness of the hay. Now the weariest of all mothers, The saddest two-years bride, She scowls in the face of her husband, And spurns her child aside. "Rake out the red coals, goodman,-- For there the child shall lie, Till the black witch comes to fetch her And both up chimney fly. "It's never my own little daughter, It's never my own," she said; "The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp instead. "Oh, fair and sweet was my baby, Blue eyes, and hair of gold; But this is ugly and wrinkled, Cross, and cunning, and old. "I hate the touch of her fingers, I hate the feel of her skin; It's not the milk from my bosom, But my blood, that she sucks in. "My face grows sharp with the torment; Look! my arms are skin and bone! Rake open the red coals, goodman, And the witch shall have her own. "She 'll come when she hears it crying, In the shape of an owl or bat, And she'll bring us our darling Anna In place of her screeching brat." Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head "Thy sorrow is great, O woman! I sorrow with thee," he said. "The paths to trouble are many, And never but one sure way Leads out to the light beyond it My poor wife, let us pray." Then he said to the great All-Father, "Thy daughter is weak and blind; Let her sight come back, and clothe her Once more in her right mind. "Lead her out of this evil shadow, Out of these fancies wild; Let the holy love of the mother Turn again to her child. "Make her lips like the lips of Mary Kissing her blessed Son; Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, Rest on her little one. "Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, Open her prison-door, And thine shall be all the glory And praise forevermore." Then into the face of its mother The baby looked up and smiled; And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child.