Who near his fountains sought obscure repose,

Yet were prepared as glorious lights to shine, Should that be needed for their sacred charge; Blest prisoners they, whose spirits are at large !

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.

"The manner in which the Waldenses and heretics disseminated their principles among the Catholic gentry was by carrying with them a box of trinkets or articles of dress. Having entered the houses of the gentry, and disposed of some of their goods, they cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable than these, - inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could be protected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bible or Testament, and thereby many were deluded into heresy."-R. SACCHO, Inquisitor of the twelfth century.

66 "O LADY fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare,

The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's queen might wear ; And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie;

I have brought them with me a weary way, — will my gentle lady buy?"

And the dy smiled on the worn old man

through the dark and clustering curls Which veiled her brow as she bent to view his silks and glittering pearls ;

And she placed their price in the old man's

hand, and lightly turned away,

But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call," My gentle lady, stay!"

"O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre flings,

Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on the lofty brow of kings,

A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not decay,

Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way!"

The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her form of grace was seen,

Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved their clasping pearls between ; Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray and old,

And name the price of thy precious gem, and my page shall count thy gold."

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folding robe he took!

"Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to thee!

Nay-keep thy gold - I ask it not, for the word of God is free!"

The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left behind

Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden's mind,

And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth,

And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of youth!

And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil faith had power,

The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her bower;

And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet untrod,

Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

LE COLPORTEUR VAUDOIS.

The following translation of Mr. Whittier's poem into French was made by PROF. G. DE FELICE, of Montauban, France, and it is said by the Rev. J C. Fletcher to be taught to every Protestant child in France. A letter of thanks was written to Mr. Whittier in 1875 in the name of the Waldensian church, so highly is his poem prized by the primitive people amid the fastnesses of the Alps.

OH! regardez, ma noble et belle dame,
Ses chaines d'or, ces joyaux précieux.
Les voyez-vous. ces perles dont la flamme
Effacerait un éclair de vos yeux?
Voyez encore ces vêtements de soie
Qui pourraient plaire à plus d'un souverain.
Quand près de vous un heureux sort m'envie,
Achetez donc au pauvre pèlerin.

La noble dame, à l'âge où l'or est vaine,
Prit les joyaux, les quitta, les reprit,
Les enlaça dans ses cheveux d'ébène,
Se trouva belle, et puis elle sourit.

Que te faut-il, vieillard? des mains d'un page
Dans un instant tu vas les recevoir.
Oh! pense à moi, si ton pèlerinage
Te reconduit auprès de ce manoir.

Mais l'étranger. d'une voix plus austère,
Lui dit :- Ma fille, il me reste un trésor
Plus précieux que les biens de la terre,
Plus éclatant que les perles et l'or.
On voit pâlir aux clartés dont il brille
Les diamants dont les rois sont épris.
Quels jours heureux luiraient pour vous ma
fille,

Si vous aviez ma perle de grande prix !

- Montrez-la moi, vieillard, je t'en conjure;
Ne puis-je pas te l'acheter aussi ? ---
Et l'étranger, sous son manteau de bure,
Chercha longtemps un vieux livre noirci.
-Ce bien, dit-il, vaut mieux qu'une couronne,
Nous l'appelons la Parole de Dieu.

Je ne vends pas ce trésor, je te donne;

Il est à vous: le ciel vous aide adieu!

Il s'éloigna.

Bientôt la noble dame

Lut et relut le livre du Vaudois,
La vérité pénétra dans son âme,

Et du Sauveur elle comprit la voix;
Puis, un matin, loin des tours crénelées,
Loin des plaisirs que le monde chérit,
On l'aperçut dans les humbles vallées
Où les Vaudois adoraient Jésus-Christ.

G. DE FELICE.

SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX.

In the shade of the cloister, long ago,-
They are dead and buried for centuries,
The pious monks walked to and fro,
Talking of holy mysteries.

By a blameless life and penance hard
Each brother there had proved his call;
But the one we name the Saint Bernard
Was the sweetest soul among them all.

And oft, as silence on them fell,

He would pause, and listen, and whisper low, "There is one who waits for me in my cell; I hear him calling, and I must go!"

No charm of human fellowship

His soul from his dearest love can bind;

With a "Jesu dulcis" on his lip,

He leaves all else that is sweet behind.

The only hand that he longs to take,
Pierced, from the cross is reaching down ;
And the head he loves, for his dear sake
Was wounded once with a thorny crown.

Ah! men and brethren, he whose call

Drew that holy monk with a power divine, Was the One who is calling for us all, Was the friend of sinners,-yours and mine!

From the sleep of the cradle to the grave, From the first low cry till the lip is dumb, Ready to help us, and strong to save,

He is calling, and waiting till we come.

135

Lord! teach us always thy voice to know. And to turn to thee from the world beside, Prepared, when our time has come to go, Whether at morn or eventide.

And to say when the heavens are rent in twain, When suns are darkened, and stars shall

flee,

Lo! thou hast not called for us in vain, And we shall not call in vain for thee!

PHOEBE CARY.

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

A STORY OF HOLLAND.

THE good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:

'Come, Peter come! I want you to go While there is light to see,

To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike. for me;

And take these cakes I made for him,

They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set."

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,

And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;

And set the turf a-blazing,

And brought the coarse black bread; That he might find a fire at night,

And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother,

With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow's tender shade;

And told them they'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight,

Though he would n't be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave. bright fellow,

With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's-nest
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day

With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,

He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle

Made glad a lonesome place Alas! if only the blind old man

Could have seen that happy face! Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent; And he felt the sunshine come and go As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes;
And saw the shadows deepen,

And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter

Along the level track

But she said: "He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve, -
Though it is n't like my boy at all
To stay without my leave."

But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,

And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.

He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
"Ah! well for us," said Peter,

"That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You 're a wicked sea," said Peter;

"I know why you fret and chafe ; You would like to spoil our lands and homes; But our sluices keep you safe!"

But hark! through the noise of waters

Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child's face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment,

And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large

As his slender, childish hand.

'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes;

But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means.

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,

And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.

For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night;
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! he has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,

He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound

Of a footstep passing nigh;

And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.

And he hears the rough wind blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor,

His feeble voice is lost;

Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post!

So, faintly calling and crying

Till the sun is under the sea;
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;

He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,

Of himself as dying - and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,

They must come and find him at last ; But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage

Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,

As yester eve she had done;

But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?

Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not

As he ever came before!

"He is dead!" she cries; "my darling!"
And the startled father hears,

And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers

Thrills the stricken man and wife,
"Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!"
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;

And every head was bared and bent

In tearful, reverent joy.

'Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero,

Remembered through the years;
But never one whose name so oft

Is named with loving tears.

And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear

Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise.

137

The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern unseen before
A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE TWINS.

"Give, and it shall be given unto you
LUKE vi. 38.

GRAND rough old Martin Luther
Bloomed fables - flowers on furze,
The better the uncouther :

Do roses stick like burrs?

"A beggar asked an alms

One day at an abbey-door," Said Luther; "but, seized with qualms, The Abbot replied, 'We 're poor!

"Poor, who had plenty once,

When gifts fell thick as rain :

But they give us nought, for the nonce, And how should we give again?

"Then the beggar, 'See your sins!
Of old, unless I err,

Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,
Date and Dabitur.

"Only, beware relapse!'

The Abbot hung his head.

This beggar might be, perhaps,
An angel," Luther said.

ROBERT BROWNING.

MARTIN LUTHER.

A Chamber in the Wartburg Morning. MARTIN LUTHER writing.

MARTIN LUTHER.

OUR God, a tower of Strength is he,
A goodly wall and weapon;
From all our need he helps us free,
That now to us doth happen.

The old evil foe

Doth in earnest grow,
In grim armor dight,

Much guile and great might;
On earth there is none like him.

O yes; a tower of strength indeed,
A present help in all our need,

A sword and buckler is our God.
Innocent men have walked unshod
O'er burning ploughshares, and have trod
Unharmed on serpents in their path,
And laughed to scorn the Devil's wrath!
Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand
Where God hath led me by the hand,
And look down, with a heart at ease,
Over the pleasant neighborhoods,
Over the vast Thuringian Woods,
With flash of river, and gloom of trees,
With castles crowning the dizzy heights,
And farms and pastoral delights,
And the morning pouring everywhere
Its golden glory on the air.

Safe, yes, safe am I here at last,

Safe from the overwhelming blast

Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast,
And the howling demons of despair
That hunted me like a beast to his lair.

Of our own might we nothing can ;
We soon are unprotected;
There fighteth for us the right Man,
Whom God himself elected.

Who is he? ye exclaim;
Christus is his name,
Lord of Sabaoth,

Very God in troth;

The field he holds forever.

Nothing can vex the Devil more

Than the name of Him whom we adore.

Therefore doth it delight me best
To stand in the choir among the rest,
With the great organ trumpeting
Through its metallic tubes, and sing:
Et verbum caro factum est!
These words the Devil cannot endure,
For he knoweth their meaning well!
Him they trouble and repel,

Us they comfort and allure,
And happy it were, if our delight
Were as great as his affright!
Yea, music is the Prophets' art ;
Among the gifts that God hath sent,
One of the most magnificent!
It calms the agitated heart;
Temptations, evil thoughts, and all
The passions that disturb the soul,
Are quelled by its divine control,
As the Evil Spirit fled from Saul,
And his distemper was allayed,
When David took his harp and played.

This world may full of devils be,
All ready to devour us;
Yet not so sore afraid are we,
They shall not overpower us.

This World's Prince, howe'er
Fierce he may appear,
He can harm us not,
He is doomed, God wot!
One little word can slay him!
Incredible it seems to some
And to myself a mystery,

That such weak flesh and blood as we,
Armed with no other shield or sword,
Or other weapon than the Word,
Should combat and should overcome,
A spirit powerful as he!

He summons forth the Pope of Rome
With all his diabolic crew,

His shorn and shaven retinue

Of priests and children of the dark;
Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch,
Who rouseth up all Christendom
Against us; and at one fell blow
Seeks the whole Church to overthrow!
Not yet; my hour is not yet come.

Yesterday in an idle mood,
Hunting with others in the wood,
I did not pass the hours in vain,
For in the very heart of all
The joyous tumult raised around,
Shouting of men, and baying of hound,
And the bugle's blithe and cheery call,
And echoes answering back again,

From crags of the distant mountain chain,