Save where the foaming passions had made white
Those livid, seething billows. What he said

In that poor place, where He did walk awhile,
I can not tell; but this I am assured,

That when the neighbors came the morrow morn,
What time the wind had bated, and the sun
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile
He passed away in, and they said, "He looks
As he had awoke and seen the face of Christ,
And with that rapturous smile held out his arms
To come to Him!"

-Jean Ingelow.

CXXXVI.-LAY OF THE Madman.

MANY a year hath passed away,
Many a dark and dismal year,

Since last I roamed in the light of day,
Or mingled my own with another's tear;
Woe to the daughters and sons of men-
Woe to them all when I roam again!

Here have I watched in this dungeon cell,
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;
Here have I shrieked, in my wild despair,

When the damned fiends from their prison came,
Sported and gamboled, and mocked me here,
With their eyes of fire and their tongues of flame,
Shouting forever and aye my name!
And I strove in vain to burst my chain,
And longed to be free as the winds again,
That I might spring in the wizard ring,
And scatter them back to their hellish den!
Woe to the daughters and sons of men—
Woe to them all, when I roam again!

How long have I been in this dungeon here,
Little I know, and nothing I care;

What to me is the day or night,
Summer's heat, or autumn sere,
Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight,
Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear?
Time! what care I for thy flight?
Joy! I spurn thee with disdain!
Nothing love I but this clanking chain
Once I broke from its iron hold,

Nothing I said, but silent and bold,

Like the shepherd that watches his gentle fold,
Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair,
Hours upon hours so watched I here,

Till one of the fiends that had come to bring
Herbs from the valley and drink from the spring,
Stalked through my dungeon entrance in!
Ha! how he shrieked to see me free-
Ho! how he trembled and knelt to me,
He, who had mocked me many a day,
And barred me out from its cheerful ray-
Gods! how I shouted to see him pray!

I wreathed my hands in the demon's hair,
And choked his breath in its muttered prayer,
And danced I then, in wild delight,
To see the trembling wretch's fright!

Gods! how I crushed his hated bones

'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeon-stones!
And plunged my arm adown his throat,
And dragged to life his beating heart,

And held it up that I might gloat
To see its quivering fibers start!
Ho! how I drank of the purple flood,
Quaffed, and quaffed again, of blood,

Till my brain grew dark, and I knew no more
Till I found myself on this dungeon floor,

Fettered and held by this iron chain;

Ho! when I break its links again,
Ha! when I break its links again,

Woe to the daughters and sons of men!

CXXXVII.-OUT IN THE COLD.

WITH blue, cold hands, and stockingless feet,
Wandered a child in the cheerless street;
Children were many, who, housed and fed,
Lovingly nestled, dreaming in bed-
Carolled their joy in a land of bliss,
Without a care or thought of this;
They were warm in humanity's fold,
But this little child was out in the cold-

Out in the cold.

Bleak blew the wind through the cheerless street; Dashing along through the merciless sleet,

All furred and shawled, man, woman, and child
Hurried along, for the storm grew wild;

They could not bear the icicle's blast,
Winter so rude on their pathway was cast;
Alas! none pitied-no one consoled

The little wanderer out in the cold

Out in the cold.

She had no father, she had no mother,
Sisters none, and never a brother;

They had passed on to the star world above-
She remained here, with nothing to love,
"Nothing to love,"-oh! men did not know
What wealth of joy that child could bestow;
So they went by and worshiped their gold,
Leaving the little one out in the cold-

Out in the cold.

Wandered she on till the shades of night
Veiled the shivering form from sight;

Then, with cold hands over her breast,

She prayed to her Father in Heaven for rest. When hours had fled, 'neath the world's dark frown, Hungered and chilled, she laid herself down;

Lay down to rest while the wealthy rolled

In carriages past her out in the cold

-Out in the cold.

Out in the cold-lo! an angel form

Brought her white robes that were rich and warm;
Out in the cold on the sleeping child
The sainted face of a mother smiled;
A sister pressed on her brow a kiss-
Led her 'mid scenes of heavenly bliss;
And angels gathered into their fold
That night the little one out of the cold-
Out of the cold.

CXXXVIII.-RICHELIEU AND FRANCE.

My liege, your anger can recall your trust,
Annul my office, spoil me of my lands,
Rifle my coffers; but my name,-my deeds,—
Are royal in a land beyond your scepter.
Pass sentence on me, if you will;-from kings,
Lo, I appeal to time! Be just, my liege.
I found your kingdom rent with heresies,
And bristling with rebellion;-lawless nobles
And breadless serfs; England fomenting discord;
Austria, her clutch on your dominion; Spain
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind

To armed thunderbolts. The arts lay dead;
Trade rotted in your marts; your armies mutinous,
Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke
Your trust, so be it! and I leave you sole,
Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm
From Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without,—
No foe not humbled! Look within,-the arts
Quit, for our schools, their old Hesperides,
The golden Italy! while throughout the veins
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides
Trade, the calm health of nations! Sire, I know
That men have called me cruel:-

I am not;-I am just! I found France rent asunder: The rich men despots and the poor banditti;

Sloth in the mart and schism within the temple;

Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths.
I have re-created France; and, from the ash
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass,
Civilization, on her luminous wings,

Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove! What was my art?
Genius, some say;-some, fortune;-witchcraft, some.
Not so, my art was justice!

-Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.

CXXXIX. THE WINE-CUP.

LYCIUS, the Cretan prince, of race divine,
Like many a royal youth, was fond of wine;
So, when his father died and left him king,
He spent his days and nights in reveling.
Show him a wine-cup, he would soon lay down
His scepter, and for roses change his crown,
Neglectful of his people and his state,

The noble cares that make a monarch great.
One day in summer-so the story goes-
Among his seeming friends, but secret foes,
He sat, and drained the wine-cup, when there came
A gray-haired man, and called him by his name,
"Lycius!" It was his tutor, Philocles,

Who held him when a child upon his knees.
"Lycius," the old man said, "it suits not you
To waste your life among this drunken crew.
Bethink you of your sire, and how he died
For that bright scepter lying by your side,
And of the blood your loving people shed
To keep that golden circlet on your head.
Ah! how have you repaid them?" Philocles,"
The prince replied, "what idle words are these?
I loved my father, and I mourned his fate;
But death must come to all men, soon or late.
Could we recall our dear ones from their urn,
Just as they lived and loved, 't were well to mourn;
But since we can not, let us smile instead: