[ORIGINAL.]
OUR NEIGHBOR.
Set it down gently at the altar rail,
The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet;
Long have we seen that pious face so pale
Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.
These many years her heart was hidden where
Nor moth nor rust nor craft of man could harm;
The blue eyes seldom lifted, save in prayer,
Beamed with her wished for heaven's celestial calm.
As innocent as childhood's was the face,
Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart;
Each trouble came as winged by special grace
And resignation saved the wound from smart.
On bead and crucifix her fingers kept
Until the last, their fond, accustomed hold;
"My Jesus," breathed the lips; the raised eyes slept.
The placid brow, the gentle hand, grew cold.
The choicely ripening cluster lingering late
Into October on its shriveled vine
Wins mellow juices which in patience wait
Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine.
Then set it gently at the altar rail,
The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet;
How can we hope if such as she can fail
Before the eternal God's high judgment-seat?
From The Literary Workmen
JENIFER'S PRAYER.
BY OLIVER CRANE.
IN THREE PARTS.
[CONCLUSION.]
PART III.
Lady Greystock drove on briskly. They were out of the shadow of the trees and again on the broad, white gleaming gravelled road that led to the west lodge, and the turnpike road to Blagden. Not a word was spoken. On went the ponies, who knew the dark shadows of the elms that stood at intervals, in groups, two or three together, by the side of the road, and threw their giant outlines across it, making the moon-light seem brighter and brighter as it silvered the surface of the broad carriage drive, and made the crushed granite sparkle--on went the ponies, shaking their heads with mettlesome impatience when the pulling of the reins offended them, not frightened at the whirling of the great droning night insects, which flew out from the oak-trees on the left, nor shying away from the shadows--on they went through the sweet, still, soft, scented night air, and the broad, peaceful light of the silent moon--on they went! Not one word mingled with the sound of their ringing hoofs, not a breath was heard to answer to the sighing of the leaves; the "good night" that had been spoken between the stranger and themselves still seemed to live in the hearing of those to whom he had spoken, and to keep them in a meditative and painful silence.
At last the lodge was reached. The servant opened the gates; the carriage was driven through; the high road was gained, and all romantic mystery was over; the dream that had held those silent ones was gone; and like one suddenly awoke, Lady Greystock said: "Eleanor! how wonderful; you knew that man! Eleanor! he knew you; asked about you; had been seeking you. Why was he there in the Beremouth woods--appearing at this hour, among the ferns and grass, like a wild creature risen from its lair? Eleanor! why don't you speak to me? Why, when he spoke of you by your name, did you not answer for yourself? Why did you send him to Jenifer? Oh! Eleanor; I feel there is something terrible and strange in all this. I cannot keep it to myself. I must tell my father. It can't be right. It cannot be for any good that we met a man lurking about, and not owned by you, though he is here to find you. Speak, Eleanor! Now that I am in the great high road I feel as if I had gone through a terror, or escaped some strange danger, or met a mystery face to face."
Lady Greystock spoke fast and in a low voice, and Eleanor, bending a little toward her, heard every word.