Volume I Part 64 (1/2)

DUTY

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is G.o.d to man, When Duty whispers low, ”Thou must,”

The youth replies, ”I can.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

LUCY GRAY Or Solitude

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see, at break of day, The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

”To-night will be a stormy night,-- You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow.”

”That, Father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon,-- The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!”

At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a f.a.got-brand.

He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down: And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on the hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

They wept,--and, turning homeward, cried, ”In heaven we all shall meet;”

When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small: And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the low stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed-- The marks were still the same-- They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL Emmie

Our doctor had called in another, I never had seen him before, But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at the door, Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands-- Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands!

Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of him He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb, And that I can well believe, for he looked so coa.r.s.e and so red, I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead, And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawned at his knee-- Drenched with the h.e.l.lish oorali--that ever such things should be!

Here was a boy--I am sure that some of our children would die But for the voice of love, and the smile, and the comforting eye-- Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seemed out of its place-- Caught in a mill and crushed--it was all but a hopeless case: And he handled him gently enough; but his voice and his face were not kind, And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind, And he said to me roughly ”The lad will need little more of your care.”

”All the more need,” I told him, ”to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer; They are all His children here, and I pray for them all as my own:”