He dies: he leaves the deed or name,
A gift forever to his land,

In trust to Friendship's prudent hand, Round 'gainst all adverse shocks to guard his fame,

Or to the world proclaim.

But the imperfect thing or thought,-
The crudities and yeast of youth,

The dubious doubt, the twilight truth, The work that for the passing day was wrought,

The schemes that came to nought,

GENTLE and grave, in simple dress, And features by keen mountain air Moulded to solemn ruggedness, The man we came to see sat there : Not apt for speech, nor quickly stirr'd Unless when heart to heart replied; A bearing equally remov'd From vain display or sullen pride.

The sinewy frame yet spoke of one Known to the hillsides: on his head Some five-and-seventy winters gone Their crown of perfect white had shed: As snow-tipp'd summits toward the sun In calm of lonely radiance press, Touch'd by the broadening light of death With a serener pensiveness.

O crown of venerable age!

O brighter crown of well-spent years!
The bard, the patriot, and the sage,
The heart that never bow'd to fears!
That was an age of soaring souls ;
Yet none with a more liberal scope
Survey'd the sphere of human things;
None with such manliness of hope.

Others, perchance, as keenly felt,
As musically sang as he;
To Nature as devoutly knelt,
Or toil'd to serve humanity:
But none with those ethereal notes,
That star-like sweep of self-control;
The insight into worlds unseen,
The lucid sanity of soul.

The fever of our fretful life,
The autumn poison of the air,
The soul with its own self at strife,
He saw and felt, but could not share :
With eye made clear by pureness, pierced
The life of Man and Nature through;
And read the heart of common things,
Till new seem'd old, and old was new.

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses

Wild summer-roses of sweet perfume, The while I sued her, kept hush'd and hearken'd,

Till shades had darken'd from gloss to gloom.

She touch'd my shoulder with fearful finger;

She said, "We linger, we must not stay: My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander;

Behold them yonder, how far they stray!"

I answer'd bolder, "Nay, let me hear you, And still be near you, and still adore! No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling:

Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more!"

She whisper'd, sighing, "There will be

sorrow

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, I shall be scolded and sent away."

Said I, denying, "If they do miss you, They ought to kiss you when you get home;

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor Should be the labor from which you come."

They might remember," she answer'd meekly,

"That lambs are weakly, and sheep are

wild

1;

But if they love me, it's none so fervent : I am a servant, and not a child."

Then each hot ember glow'd within me,

And love did win me to swift reply: "Ah! do but prove me; and none shall bind you,

Nor fray nor find you, until I die."

She blush'd and started, and stood awaiting,

As if debating in dreams divine; But I did brave them; I told her plainly She doubted vainly, she must be mine.

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley

Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; And homeward drave them, we two together, Through blooming heather and gleaming dews.

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her,
My Doris tender, my Doris true;
That I, her warder, did always bless her,
And often press her to take her due.

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling,
With love excelling, and undefil'd;
And love doth guard her, both fast and
fervent,

No more a servant, nor yet a child.

FROM "DOROTHY: A COUNTRY

STORY"

DOROTHY

DOROTHY goes with her pails to the ancient well in the courtyard

Daily at gray of morn, daily ere twilight at eve;

Often and often again she winds at the mighty old windlass,

Still with her strong red arms landing the bucket aright:

Then, her beechen yoke press'd down on her broad square shoulders, Stately, erect, like a queen, she with her burden returns:

She with her burden returns to the fields that she loves, to the cattle Lowing beside the troughs, welcoming her and her pails.

Dorothy who is she? She is only a servant-of-all-work;

Servant at White Rose Farm, under the

cliff in the vale :

Under the sandstone cliff, where martins build in the springtime,

Hard by the green level meads, hard by the streams of the Yore.

Oh, what a notable lass is our Dolly, the pride of the dairy!

Stalwart and tall as a man, strong as a heifer to work :

Built for beauty, indeed, but certainly built

for labor

Witness her muscular arm, witness the grip of her hand!

Weakly her mistress was, and weakly the two little daughters;

But by her master's side Dorothy wrought| like a son:

Wrought out of doors on the farm, and labor'd in dairy and kitchen, Doing the work of two; help and support of them all.

Rough were her broad brown hands, and

within, ah me! they were horny ; Rough were her thick ruddy arms, shapely and round as they were; Rough too her glowing cheeks; and her sunburnt face and forehead Browner than cairngorm seem'd, set in her amber-bright hair.

Yet 't was a handsome face; the beautiful regular features

Labor could never spoil, ignorance could not degrade:

And in her clear blue eyes bright gleams of intelligence linger'd;

And on her warm red mouth, Love might have 'lighted and lain.

Never an unkind word nor a rude unseemly expression

Came from that soft red mouth; nor in those sunny blue eyes

Lived there a look that belied the frankness of innocent girlhood

Fearless, because it is pure; gracious, and gentle, and calm.

Have you not seen such a face, among rural hardworking maidens

Born but of peasant stock, free from our Dorothy's shame ?

Just such faces as hers a countenance open and artless,

Where no knowledge appears, culture, nor vision of grace;

Yet which an open-air life and simple and strenuous labor

Fills with a charm of its own-precious, and warm from the heart? Hers was full of that charm; and besides, was something ennobled,

Something adorn'd, by thoughts due to a gentle descent:

So that a man should say, if he saw her afield at the milking,

Or with her sickle at work reaping the barley or beans, "There is a strapping wench of a thousand,

a lusty lass