There was within that little cot

A sacred influence shed,

Breathing sweet thoughts of holy peace
And watching round the bed.

With early morning dawn old Stout
Was starting from his door,
Bearing a nice large faggot

And some other little store.

He laid the faggot by her door,
Then spied a broken pane:
One hand he put in with his tea,
Then soft withdrew again.

He soft withdrew, but not without
One prayerful glance on high,
To him, who ever listeneth

To sorrow's bitter cry.

Next Stout pass'd round by poor dame Wright's, Close by her garden rail:

Waiting some kindly hand to fill,

There stood an empty pail.

She was too feeble for herself
To take it to the brook;

Stout filled and placed it at her door
Without a second look.

"I wish I could do more," he sighed,
But then I heard the word,
Whispered above where angels dwell,
""Twas done unto the Lord."

Then on to labour he must pass :

But hark! what sound he hears?

The bleating as of many sheep
Fell full upon his ears.

And true enough along the lane
All wandering they strayed,

While a colt with many a spring and bound

Its merry antics played.

They're Jones's sheep, I know at once;
Whose done him this ill trick

To set his sheep all straying?"

And then the thought came quick :

"I owe that farmer Jones a grudge,

And now I'll pay him out :

"Twould take too long to tell you what
The grievance was about.

But oh, how bright and happy
Our villages would be,

If all who grudges owed like Stout,
Would pay them out as he!

His business first was with the colt,
For, once beyond the lane,
It would not be an easy task
To bring it back again.

Stout had a cunning way with beasts;
I hear it may be taught:
How it was done I cannot say,
But soon the colt was caught.

His kerchief and a piece of string,
A sort of halter made:

Stout tied him to a gate, whilst he
Went after sheep that stray'd;
For here and there up many a path
They wander'd all about;
Now through a hedge, then in a field:
'Twas pretty work for Stout.

But patience will accomplish much;
And in at Jones's gate

He turned them all and the little colt,
Just as the clock struck eight.

Now Jones was not the thing that day,

Else was an early bird;

That his colt and all his sheep were gone,

Was the first news he heard.

I'm very much afraid he swore:
He was a hasty man ;
But quickly putting on his hat,
Off to his field he ran.

His sheep all strayed? why there they were,
Grazing as sheep should graze :

Who turned them out? who brought them back?
He turned round in amaze.

Not far he looked, for resting there

A little in the shade,

Sat our old friend: he had not wished
His kindly act betrayed.

But seeing Jones he touched his hat:
"I hope there's no harm done;
Just ninety-nine and the wee colt:
Most like 'twas done from fun."

"It's all your work, if no harm's done :
Thank you with all my heart.
You'll shake hands, won't you, and forgive?
And I'll act a better part."

Stout shook hands freely and replied,
""Twas but a small offence :

I have so much to be forgiven,"
(He was thinking of the pence
The servant owed his fellow man,
And all he owed his lord;
And how we're bidden to forgive
In God's most holy word).

"You'll step up won't you to the house?
Sure you must want some cheer:
You'll find a welcome from the dame,
And take a glass of beer."

“Thanks, no,” said Stout; "I must be gone,

For I have work to day:

I know I'm wanted on the farm,

Else I would gladly stay."

Says Jones, "I think I'll learn your ways;

I ha'n't seen church for long;

But them as teaches you, I guess,

They can't be very wrong."

Stout looked, then stopped, then spoke aloud;

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When two or three in prayer

Are met together in Christ's name,

We know the Lord is there.

"We're sure to get a blessing then, If we will only ask :

I take it 'tis a privilege,

And not a dreary task."

So daily from that lowly fount
Quick drops of love there fell,
With sweet refreshing influence,
As many a heart could tell.

As glowing cloud in the golden west
Foretells a setting sun;

So life's long race seem'd near its goal,
And the victor's chaplet won.

'Twas on a sultry summer's eve,
Just at the time of hay,
When weary on the hay-cart top
A young lad sleeping lay.

As it passed along the rutty lane,
A sudden jolt it gave;

Its sleeping burden was o'erthrown,
None there to help or save.

Poor lad! he woke with a fearful cry,
As on the ground he lay:

That voice it reached a mother's heart,
Though a long, long field away.

Oh who shall tell that mother's wail ?-
Sure, he's my only boy,

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My treasure, light of my eyes, my pride,
My darling, and my joy."

At the voice of love he raised his eye,
But it closed with heavy moan ;

Whilst the faint of death seem'd in every breath,
And in every inward groan.

"Let us lift him into my little bed,"

Said Stout, "it's very near;

I've sent away to the nearest town,
The doctor will soon be here."

You can fancy all that passed that time,
How the leg was set with pain;
And how full many a week must pass
Ere he could walk again.

The Union seemed the only place

For him, but 'twas miles away:

Stout feared the journey might hurt the lad,
And declared they both should stay.

The mother could bide with the lad all night,
He'd have a bed on the floor:

Some nice fresh hay would do quite well;

He'd often fared worse before.

"A blessing be on your hoary head, On the day that ye were born;

For sure he's my darling, my only joy

A widow I, forlorn.

"We come from dear Ireland, ye may guess;
If ever he's free from this pain,
We'll go back there, my darling and I,
And never come over again."

So the weary days went on, and on,
Till the lad he was well at last;
But Stout's poor store was well nigh gone :
The summer was over and past.

What holy words of love and truth
In that little cot were read!
What earnest prayers to God on high,
Were heard and answered!

From one little taper's steady light,
Another flame was caught;
Another soul reclaim'd from sin,
With a priceless ransom bought:
A sinner turn'd! oh joy on high!
Who has saved a soul from death;
Oh great reward to a life of love!
Give thanks to thy latest breath.

The mother and lad they went at last,
With a voice of blessing and love :

"Farewell! Farewell! but we'll hope to meet

Again in a heaven above.

"Oh we'll be there, my boy and I,

Ye have taught us the way to go;

And the Shepherd who died for his wandering sheep
Will help us along we know."

Oh bright, bright faith, and trusting hope,
How dreary the world would be,

If the toilsome way, and the darksome road,
Were not lit up by thee!