The angel answered with pathetic tone,— “In my left hand I bear the gifts alone Of those who worship God the Sire above, But for his children testify no love; While these sweet roses, which ne’er grow wan, Come from the lovers of both God and man.”
The vision faded. Arnulph cried, “Alas! My soul was blind!” And so it came to pass, That the changed boy a cloister entered not, But with God’s working-men took part and lot. Gerald Massey.
A LOST CHILD.
“I’m losted! Could you find me, please?” Poor little frightened baby! The wind had tossed her golden fleece, The stones had scratched her dimpled knees; I stooped, and lifted her with ease, And softly whispered, “Maybe.”
“Tell me your name, my little maid: I can’t find you without it.” “My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said. “Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head: “Up to my house ’ey never said A single word about it.”
“But, dear,” I said, “what is your name?” “Why, didn’t you hear me told you? Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came: “Yes, when you’re good. But when they blame You, little one,—is it just the same When mamma has to scold you?”
“My mamma never scolds,” she moans, A little blush ensuing, “’Cept when I’ve been a-frowing stones; And then she says [the culprit owns],— ‘Mehitabel Sapphira Jones, What has you been a-doing?’” Anna F. Burnham.