THE OLD MAN OF VERONA,

WHO HAD NEVER BEEN BEYOND THE SUBURBS.

From the Latin of Claudian, Epigram ii.

"Oh felice che mai non pose il piede
Fuori della natia sua dolce terra;

Egli il cor non lascio fitto in oggetti
Che di piu riveder on ha speranza,

E cio, che vive ancor, morto, non piange." *

Pindemonte.

HAPPY the man, who spends his life, 'mid his paternal fields:
The roof which saw him cradled, to his age its shelter yields;
And, where he crawled in infancy, he now, with staff in hand,
Scores the long tally of his years, upon the sunny sand.
Not him with strange vicissitudes, has fortune drawn away,
Nor love of change e'er tempted him, by distant wave to stray;
No trader trembling on the sea, no soldier at the drum,
No lawyer, hoarse and weary, with the forum's ceaseless hum,
No quidnunc, he: † the nearest town, he never yet has seen;
Too happy in his broad expanse of heaven, no wall between.
The years he reckons, not by kings, but by the crops they bring;
He names each autumn, from its fruits, and from its flowers
each spring. +

The plain, which hides his setting sun, brings back its rising

light,

And all the world he knows, is that, which circles-in his sight. He well remembers each tall oak, since scarce it reached his

knee,

And sees the whole coæval wood, grow old, as fast as he.

* Happy the man who never roved

Beyond his native land, beloved;

Whose heart is knit by no sad chain

To those, he ne'er shall see again,

Nor weeps the living, as the dead, and knows he weeps in vain.

"Indocilis rerum;" a man that does not read the papers. "What news?"

As we say, "the last peach year;

""this will be an apple year;" "a fine

dahlia season."

Neighb'ring Verona farther seems, than India's sunburnt

strand,

And Lake Benacus is to him, the Red Sea, near at hand. With vigour, all unbroken, and with shoulders broad and square, His three times thirty years, still find him " none the worse for wear."

"Some love to roam; " remotest Spain they seek, in strolling strife:

They "see the world," perhaps; but he has much the most of life.

1850-1859.

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.

"Out of Egypt have I called My Son."

MAIDEN mother, meek and mild,
Cherishing that cherub Child,
Why, through wild and weary way,
Should thy feeble footsteps stray?

Herod seeks the Loved One's life;
Glitters now the murderous knife;
Ramah, reeking lies, and red;
Rachel weeps her children, dead.

Maiden mother, meek and mild,
Fear not for thy cherub Child:
Through the wild and weary way,
Angel squadrons, with thee stay.

Hear what God, the Lord, hath done:
"Out of Egypt," called His Son;
Nailed Him to the atoning Tree;
Giv'n Him there, the victory.

RIVERSIDE, First Sunday after Epiphany, 1850.

LITTLE MARY'S GRAVE.

BORN, AUGUST 18, 1838, DIED, JAN. 18, 1844.

It was a sweet autumnal day;
The rustling leaves, around me lay;
The landscape, bathed in golden light,
As heaven itself, was fair and bright.

I waited for a funeral train:

And, sauntering through the Church-yard lane,
My thoughtful feet, instinctive, strayed,
To where a darling child was laid.

Sweet Mary! I remember well,
How like a blessing, first, she fell ;
And on a joyous summer day,
Sweet flower, sweet bud, together lay.
And, well do I remember, too,
When wintry winds around us, blew,
We bore our summer bud, away,
Its sweetness, in the snow, to lay.

She was a most attractive child:
So

gay, so free, so meek, so mild; A lovely, little, loving thing,

Among the heart-strings, made to cling.
Her childish fancy took to me:

She loved, to hang upon my knee;
And win, with many an artless wile,
The kiss, that crowned the sunny smile.
I hear her flute-like accents, now,

I see the beaming, on her brow,
As from her little door-way seat,

She hailed, with glee, my passing feet,
As bright and glad, as any bird,
Could she but win one kindly word.

Sweet Mary, years have come, and gone,

Since last I heard thy loving tone;

1850.

And time, and toil, and care, have shed
The snows of winter, on my head:
Yet while I stand, beside thee, here,
And brush away the starting tear,
I hear, again, thy bird-like voice,
And, in thy childish love, rejoice.

Sweet Mary, thou art, now, with God!
We linger, yet, along the road:

Oh! that the echoes of thy speech,

Our struggling hearts, from heaven, might reach;

To win us, from the things of earth,
To thoughts and themes, of holier birth;
To teach us, to count all things loss;
For His dear sake, who bore the Cross:
That, all who loved thee, here, may be,
Through Him, at last, in Heaven, with thee!

THE MOTHER, AT THE GRAVE OF HER CHILD.

OUR little Mary is not dead; but, sweetly gone before, She waits, to win, and welcome us, upon that happy shore: To win us, with the memories, that linger, of her love; And welcome us, to share, with her, the blessedness, above.

She is our little Mary, still, and never can grow old;
As young, as when the angel came, and took her, from our fold;
Made like unto the Mary-born, the only Undefiled,
She lives, in heaven's unchanging youth, our own immortal

child.

Our dear ones, all, are growing up in beauty and in grace; In manhood, and in womanhood, to fill, please God, their place; But, whatsoever He may take, of all, that He has given, One gift of His, we cannot lose, our little one in heaven.

RIVERSIDE, January 13, 1851.

*FICUS RELIGIOSA.

THE Banyan of the Indian Isles,
Strikes deeply down, its massive root;
And spreads its branching life, abroad,

And bends, to earth, with scarlet fruit:
And, when the branches reach the ground,
They firmly plant themselves, again :
Then rise, and spread, and droop, and root;
An ever green, and endless, chain.

And, so, the Church of Jesus Christ,
The blessed Banyan of our God,
Fast rooted, upon Sion's Mount,

Has sent its sheltering arms, abroad;
And every branch, that, from it, springs,
In sacred beauty, spreading wide,
As, low, it bends, to bless the earth,
Still, plants another, by its side.

Long, as the world, itself, shall last,

The sacred Banyan, still, shall spread;
From clime to clime, from age to age,

Its sheltering shadow shall be shed;
Nations shall seek its "pillared shade,"
Its leaves shall, for their healing, be:
The circling flood, that feeds its life,
The blood, that crimsoned Calvary.
RIVERSIDE, 2d Sunday after Easter, 1851.

WILLIAM CROSWELL,

POET, PASTOR, PRIEST,

ENTERED INTO LIFE, SUNDAY 9 NOVEMBER, 21 AFTER TRINITY, 1851.

I DID not think to number thee, my Croswell, with the dead,
But counted on thy loving lips, to soothe my dying bed;
To watch the fluttering flood of life, ebb languidly away,
And point my spirit, to the gate, that opens into day.

*Written for the third Jubilee of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.