great sum, as things go now with poor men; but they have given me a bag of bread too, and a salt fish, and some flesh: so all helps out." "Well," said I," and have you given it them yet?" "No," said he, "but I have called, and my wife has answered that she cannot come out yet; but in half an hour she hopes to come, and I am waiting for her. Poor woman! says he, “she is brought sadly down; she has had a swelling, and it is broke, and I hope she will recover; but I fear the child will die: but it is the Lord!" Here he stopped, and wept very much. 66 Well, honest friend," said 1, "thou hast a sure comforter, if thou hast brought thyself to be resigned to the will of God: He is dealing with us all in judgment." "Oh, sir," says he; "it is infinite mercy, if any of us are spared; and who am I to repine?" 66 Say'st thou so," said I; " and how much less is my faith than thine?" At length, after some further talk, the poor woman opened the door and called, "Robert! Robert!" He answered, and bid her stay a few moments and he would come; so he ran down the common stairs to his boat, and fetched up a sack, in which were the provisions he had brought from the ships; and when he returned, he hallooed again; then he went to the great stone which he showed me, and emptied the sack, and laid all out, everything by themselves, and then retired; and his wife came with a little boy to fetch them away; and he called, and said, such a captain had sent such a thing, and such a captain such a thing; and at the end added: “God has sent it all; give thanks to Him!” When the poor woman had taken up all, she was so weak, she could not carry it at once in, though the weight was not much; so she left the biscuits which were in a little bag, and left a little boy to watch it till she came again. "Well; but," says I to him, "did you leave her the four shillings too, which you said was your week's pay?" "Yes, yes," says he; "you shall hear her own it." So he calls again, "Rachel! Rachel!"—which it seems was her name- 66 did you take up the money?" "Yes," said she. "How much was it?" said he. "Four shillings and a groat," said she. 'Well, well," says he, "the Lord keep you all;" and so he turned to go away. 66 66 As I could not refrain contributing tears to this man's story, so neither could I refrain my charity for his assistance; so I called him. "Hark thee, friend," said I; come hither, for I believe thou art in health that I may venture thee; so I pulled out my hand which was in my pocket before. Here," says I, "go and call thy Rachel once more, and give her a little more comfort from me; God will never forsake a family that trust in Him as thou dost: SO I gave him four other shillings, and bid him go, lay them on the stone, and call his wife. I have not words to express the poor man's thankfulness, neither could he express it himself but by tears running down his face. He called his wife and told her God had moved the heart of a stranger, upon hearing their condition, to give them all that money; and a good deal more, such as that, he said to her. The woman, too, made signs of the like thankfulness, as well to heaven as to me, and joyfully picked it up; and I parted with no money all that year that I thought better bestowed. De Foc. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, II. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; III. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, IV. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. V. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. VI. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. VII. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! VIII. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, IX. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. X. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, PART II. I. FAR from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. II. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deckel, III. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, IV. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering, look behind? V. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, VI. For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, If chance by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. VII. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: |