If only children see thy face,
And, confident, may trust thy grace,
From age's bonds, oh, me deliver,
And make me thine own child for ever!
The love and truth of childhood's prime
Dwell in me yet from that same golden time.


XV.

In countless pictures I behold thee,
O Mary, lovelily expressed,
But of them all none can unfold thee
As I have seen thee in my breast!
I only know the world's loud splendour
Since then is like a dream o'erblown;
And that a heaven, for words too tender,
My quieted spirit fills alone.



_A PARABLE_.

Long ago, there lived far to the west a very young man, good, but
extremely odd. He tormented himself continually about this nothing and
that nothing, always walked in silence and straight before him, sat down
alone when the others were at their sports and merry-makings, and brooded
over strange things. Caves and woods were his dearest haunts; and there he
talked on and on with beasts and birds, with trees and rocks--of course