Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/239

Still melt the icy purpose, still preserve
From error's path the heart that thou dost fold
Close in thine own pure love. Yes, ever be
The advocate of mercy, and the friend
Of those whom all forsake; so may thy prayer
In thine adversity be heard of Him,
Who multiplies to pardon.
                                   Still we thought
Of thee, Philippa, and thy fervent tone
Of intercession, and the cry of joy,
Which was its echo from the breaking heart,
In many a mournful home. Of thee we thought,
With blessings on thy goodness, as we came
All chill and dripping from the salt sea wave,
Within the gates of Calais, soon to wend
Our onward course.
                         The vales of France were green,
As if the soul of summer lingered there,
Yet the crisp vine-leaf told an autumn-tale,
While the brown windmills spread their flying arms
To every fickle breeze. The singing-girl
Awoke her light guitar, and featly danced
To her own madrigals; but the low hut
Of the poor peasant seemed all comfortless,
And his harsh-featured wife, made swarth by toils
Unfeminine, with no domestic smile
Cheered her sad children, plunging their dark feet
Deep in the miry soil.
                                At intervals