The pearly necklace of her loving arms
She bound on him, and laid her spring-like head
Against the autumn of his cheek, with charms
Of smile and mien; while to his shoulder fled
Her gold, loose hair with flowers like jewels set,
And made thereon a wondrous epaulet.
He seemed more like an angel than a man,
As, father-like, he paid back each caress;
Better than all his deeds in war's red van
Appeared this simple act of tenderness.
The people cried "Huzza!" and did not pause
Until the town seemed shaken with applause.
THE ARTIST'S PRAYER.
Washington Allston, in a foreign land,
Went to his studio, and knelt to pray:
Starving and weak, he bowed, hand clasped to hand,
With no more strength to keep the wolf at bay.
Conscience, whose still, small voice grows loud and clear,
Had risen in his heart now sad and drear.
Within the vast cathedral of the night,
The stars, the altar-lamps, their thanks outshine;
Yet he, the artist, from whose soul shone bright
The nobler fire of genius, God's divine
And greatest gift to man, had never cast
One ray of gratitude for mercies past.
"I have been most ungrateful, Lord," he said.
"Bound up in self, I have forgotten Thee;
Yet now, I pray, vouchsafe me this day's bread,
