Then sprang forth Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
'Twas Easter Day; he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.
In the tiring room close by
The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite :

And all his past career

Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till in his life the sickness weighed ;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer :
And rising from the sickness drear
He grew a priest, and now stood here.
To the east with praise he turned,
And in his sight the angel burned.
I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it droppedCreation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain,

Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ :
Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.
One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

R. BROWNING.

April 12.

THE forward violet thus did I chide ;—

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.
SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet XCIX.

April 13.

WE live together years and years,

And leave unsounded still

Each other's springs of hopes and fears
Each other's depths of will.

We live together day by day,
And some chance look or tone
Lights up with instantaneous ray
An inner world unknown.

Then wonder not that those who love
The longest and the best,

Are parted by some sudden move

Of passion and unrest.

LORD HOUGHTON.

April 14.

"THE past's our own :

No friend can take that from us! . . .

I'll be patient,— Here's something yet more wretched than myself. How am I wretched?

...

The happiness thou hast from me, is mine,

And makes me happy. Ay, there lies the secret—
Could we but crush that ever-craving lust

For bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose our life,
Our barren unit life, to find again

A thousand lives in those for whom we die,
So were we men and women, and should hold
Our rightful rank in God's great universe,

Wherein, in heaven and earth, by will or nature, Nought lives for self-All-all-from crown to footstool

The Lamb, before the world's foundations slain—
The angels, ministers to God's elect—
The sun, who only shines to light a world-
The clouds, whose glory is to die in showers-
The fleeting streams, who in their ocean graves

Flee the decay of stagnant self-content-
The oak, ennobled by the shipwright's axe-
The soil, which yields its marrow to the flower-
The flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms,
Born only to be prey for every bird—

All spend themselves for others: and shall man,
Earth's rosy blossom-image of his God-
Whose twofold being is the mystic knot

Which couples earth and Heaven-doubly bound
As being both worm and angel, to that service
By which both worms and angels hold their life,
Shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt,
Refuse, without some hope of further wage
Which he calls Heaven, to be what God has made
him?

No! let him show himself the creature's lord
By freewill gift of that self-sacrifice

Which they perforce by nature's law must suffer.
C. KINGSLEY, The Saint's Tragedy.

April 15.

THE RULING PASSION.

NOT always actions show the man: we find
Who does a kindness, is not therefore kind :
Perhaps prosperity becalm'd his breast,

Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east :
Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat,
Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the
great;

Who combats bravely is not therefore brave,
He dreads a deathbed like the meanest slave:
Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise,
His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.

But grant that actions best discover man ;
Take the most strong, and sort them as you can.

Search then the Ruling Passion: there alone The wild are constant and the cunning known ; The fool consistent, and the false sincere ; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.

Time that on all things lays his lenient hand, Yet tames not this, it sticks to our last sand. "Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke !" (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ;) "No, let a charming chintz, and Brussels lace, Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's deadAnd-Betty-give this cheek a little red."

The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd A humble servant to all human kind,

Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir :

"If-where I'm going-I could serve you, sir?”— "I give and I devise," old Euclis said,

(And sigh'd) "my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, sir?" "My money, sir; what-all? Why, if I must"-(then wept) "I give it Paul." The manor, sir?-"The manor! hold," he cry'd, "Not that,—I cannot part with that," and dy'd. And you, brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death : Such in those moments as in all the past, "Oh, save my country, Heav'n!" shall be your last. POPE, Moral Essays.