THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.

"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 lady 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 the 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 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!

J. G. WHITTIER.

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest Angel gently comes;
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again ;
And yet in tenderest love, our dear
And Heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance !
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,

Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience ! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will!
O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be resigned!"
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"
J. G. WHITTIER.

THE

CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON.

Ibu Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a Cypress-tree in Ceylon universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them, was restored at once to youth and vigour. The traveller saw several venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling. of a leaf.

THEY sat in silent watchfulness

The sacred Cypress-tree about,

And, from beneath old wrinkled brows
Their failing eyes looked out.

Gray age and sickness waiting there

Through weary night and lingering day,

Grim as the idols at their side,

And motionless as they.

Unheeded in the boughs above

The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; Unseen of them the island flowers Bloomed brightly at their feet.

O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crashed on rock and hill; The cloud-fire on their eye-balls blazed,Yet there they waited still!

What was the world without to them? The Moslem's sunset call-the dance Of Ceylon's maids,—the passing gleam Of battle-flag and lance?

They waited for that falling leaf

Of which the wandering Jogees sing; Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring.

Oh, if these poor and blinded ones
In trustful patience wait to feel
O'er torpid pulse and failing limb
A youthful freshness steal,

Shall we, who sit beneath that tree
Whose healing leaves of life are shed
In answer to the breath of prayer
Upon the waiting head.

Not to restore our failing forms,

And build the spirits broken shrine;

But, on the fainting soul to shed
A light and life divine.

Shall we grow weary in our watch,

And murmur at the long delay ?

Impatient of our Father's time
And His appointed way!

Or shall the stir of outward things
Allure and claim the Christian's eye,
When on the heathen watcher's ear
Their powerless murmurs die ?

Alas! a deeper test of faith

Than prison cell or martyr's stake The self-abasing watchfulness

Of silent prayer may make.

We gird us bravely to rebuke

Our erring brother in the wrong,— And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is strong.

Easier to smite with Peter's sword

Than" watch one hour" in humbling prayer,
Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord,
Our hearts can do and dare.

But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side,
From waters which alone can save ;
And murmur for Abana's banks
And Pharpar's brighter wave.

O Thou, who in the garden's shade
Did'st wake thy weary ones again,
Who slumbered at that fearful hour,
Forgetful of thy pain.

Bend o'er us now, as over them,

And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee!

J. G. WHITTIER.