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Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 132.djvu/648

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"I thought I knew it!" she said;
"I thought I had learnt it quite!"
But the gentle teacher shook her head,
With a grave, yet loving light
In the eyes that fell on the upturned face,
As she gave the book
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

"I thought I knew it!" she said;
And a heavy tear fell down
As she turned away with bending head;
Yet not for reproof or frown,
And not for the lesson to learn again,
Or the play-hour lost;
It was something else that gave the pain.

She could not have put it in words,
But her teacher understood,
As God understands the chirp of the birds
In the depth of an autumn wood;
And a quiet touch on the reddening cheek
Was quite enough;
No need to question, no need to speak.

Then the gentle voice was heard,
"Now I will try you again,"
And the lesson was mastered, every word;
Was it not worth the pain?
Was it not kinder the task to turn
Than to let it pass
As a lost, lost leaf that she did not learn?

Is it not often so,
That we only learn in part,
And the Master's testing-time may show
That it was not quite "by heart?"
Then he gives, in his wise and patient grace
The lesson again,
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

Only stay by his side
Till the page is really known;
It may be we failed because we tried
To learn it all alone.
And now that he would not let us lose
One lesson of love
(For he knows the loss), can we refuse?

But oh! how could we dream
That we knew it all so well,
Reading so fluently, as we deem,
What we could not even spell?
And oh! how could we grieve once more
That patient One
Who has turned so many a task before!

That waiting One, who now
Is letting us try again;
Watching us with the patient brow
That bore the wreath of pain;
Thoroughly teaching what he would teach
Line upon line,
Thoroughly doing his work in each.

Then let our hearts be still,
Though our task be turned to-day.
Oh! let him teach us what he will,
In his own most gracious way,
Till, sitting only at Jesu's feet,
As we learn each line,
The hardest is found all clear and sweet.

Good Words. Frances Ridley Havergal.



Blue sky, white cloud, sweet depth of southern air,
What shaded, pansy-sprinkled grove is this?
What lovers trembling on the verge of bliss,
She passion-warm, — he pale and drooping with despair?

Her throbbing brows, with yellow hair upbound,
She leans upon her sister's cooler breast;
There soothes her soft cheek, flush'd with sweet unrest,
And from her parted lips breaths fragrance all around.

With him 'tis ebb-tide of the golden flood;
His hand rests idly on the cittern-wires,
And as the beating of his heart inspires,
He strikes sad chords, and sings in melancholy mood,

Bowing his face, — "Dear love, this heart forlorn,
A crazèd tenement on a river's brink,
Haunted by shapes of care, save, ere it sink,
And be in death's chill waters whelm'd and overborne."

Fair lady seated with the enthrallèd twain,
Thy beaming eyes with no wild passion glow.
No touch of the sweet sorrow clouds thy brow;
Smiling, thou feel'st her joy, and smiling see'st his pain.

Then rise, nor longer the fond lovers sever;
Bid her to fill his heart, give passion sway,
And flush his cheek with kisses. Ah, no, stay,
Nor break the spell that holds the poet's dream forever!

Spectator. Herbert New.