ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.
St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
And being ever courteously inclined
To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
He fell into discourse with him; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.
ST. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
ST. And when you are one, what do you intend?
Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end
ST. Suppose it so,—what have you next in view?
Y. That I may get to be a canon, too.
ST. Well; and how then?
Y. Why, then, for aught I know
I may be made a bishop.
ST. Be it so—
What then?
Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree—
And yet my lot it possibly may be.
ST. Suppose it was, what then?
Y. Why, who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
ST. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?
Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth that wishing can procure;
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,
As long as God shall please, then I must die.
ST. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best
But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest!
Take my advice—whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide;
Then think of that which may be, and indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.
Dr. Byrom.
* * * * *
NO KISS.
"Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite,
To a pretty little tune,
Holding up her dainty mouth,
Sweet as roses born in June.
Will was ten years old that day,
And he pulled her golden curls
Teasingly, and answer made—
"I'm too old—I don't kiss girls."
Ten years pass, and Marguerite
Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,
Gazing fondly in her eyes,
Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?"
'Rite is seventeen to-day,
With her birthday ring she toys
For a moment, then replies:
"I'm too old—I don't kiss boys."
* * * * *
KEYS.
Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,
Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.
Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they
Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.
But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime
Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time.
Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.
Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth,
For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.
We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then,
Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again.
"We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee,
Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!
Bessie Chandler.
* * * * *
DRIFTING.
My soul to-day is far away
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat, a bird afloat,
Skims round the purple peaks remote.
Round purple peaks it sails and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.
Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles,
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, if my rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff:
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls where swells and falls
The Bay's deep breast at intervals,
At peace I lie, blown softly by
A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day so mild is heaven's own child,
With earth and ocean reconciled:
The airs I feel around me steal
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.
Over the rail my hand I trail,
Within the shadow of the sail;
A joy intense, the cooling sense,
Glides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyes my spirit flies
Where summer sings and never dies—
O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines
Among her future oils and wines.
Her children, hid the cliffs amid,
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;
Or down the walls, with tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rock like waterfalls.
The fisher's child, with tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows;
This happier one its course has run,
From lands of snow to lands of sun.
Oh! happy ship, to rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!
Oh! happy crew, my heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no more the worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar!
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise!
T. Buchanan Read.
* * * * *
ELIZABETH.
Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Red-breast
Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other
That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely
All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting,
Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only
Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they
were building.
With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Hadden
Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless.
Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music,
Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.
Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly
Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims,
Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting
In the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, John Estaugh.
At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting
Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey
Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden,
Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,
And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.
But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning
Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh:
"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee,
Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others;
Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth."
And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together.
It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;
It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning
Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance,
As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded:
"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee;
I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."
And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken:
"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit;
Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness,
Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning,
But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me.
When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completed
He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness
Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for His guidance."
Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,
"So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it further,
It hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow
Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not
When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it,
Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me."
And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.
Longfellow.