passed through, he saw two large fish struggling to swim up the ford, and he struck them with his staff and carried them home, and said, 'Eat, and bless the Lord, for he is good, and has delivered me this night from a great sin; eat, for these are of his providing.' So he asked a blessing when they were dressed, and his wife and children ate, and want fled and never more returned; and before he died he told me the story, that the mercy of God might be known among us. Let us go in and bless him and praise him, my children, for he is good and he is merciful and he is wondrous."
MAN and his works! The meteor's gleam,
The sun-flash on a winter stream,
A vision seen in sleep, that gives
Of gladness more than aught which lives,
A palace from a splendid cloud
Formed, while the wind is rising loud,
A bubble on the lake, a cry
Heard sad from sea when storms are high,
Ways made through air by wild birds' wings,
Are sure and well established things;
Man and his works! words writ on snow
Are emblem of them both below:
Stars dropt from heaven to darkness thrown,
A moment light-and all is gone.
See, Art has cast her spell to check
Man's greatness ere it goes to wreck;
Here, Turner, with a wizard's power,
Has fixed in splendour tree and tower;
And bravely from oblivion won,
A landscape steeped in dew and sun.
A grove, a shepherd, sheep, a rill,
Towers seen o'er all-behold Fonthill!
Where, like a saint embalmed and shrined,
Long worshiped Beckford dozed and dined;
Strayed through that wood, strolled by that brook
Ate much-thought little-wrote a book;
Tattled with titled dames and sighed
In state like any prince, and died.
And that's Fonthill! things of high fame
Less lovely are in look than name—
Spots bright in song and fair in story
Glow far less lustrous than their glory:
Historians' heroes, poets' lasses,
Shine glorious through Fame's magic glasses,
Who in rude war, or rapture's hour,
Had no such heart-inspiring power.
So fares it with Fonthill, which proud
Shoots there in lustre to the cloud;
Give fame its portion, art its share,
And all the rest is empty air.
No longer, through the lighted hall,
Its lord at midnight leads the ball;
Nor, dancing 'mid its dazzling rooms,
Young jewelled beauty shakes her plumes;
Nor bards are there, glad to rehearse
A rich man's praise in trembling verse;
Nor shrewder souls who breathe rich wines
In laughter when their landlord shines:
All, all are gone-the green grass sward,
On jewelled belle and beau and bard
And man of rank, grows long and green,
Nor seems to know that such have been.
The tower that rose so proud and fair,
Hath left its station in mid air;
While in its place the sunbeam flings
Its glory down-the skylark sings:
O'er the wide space usurped by vain
Man, Nature hath resumed her reign.
So hath it been, and will be still
With all, as well as proud Fonthill.
Where's Cicero's villa, Cæsar's hall?
Attila's hut, Alaric's pall?
The throne of iron whence late flew forth
Napoleon's words which shook the earth?
Men, glorious men, where are they gone,
Who ruled and fooled and sinned and shone?
And women who, like babes in strings,
Led mighty earls and conquering kings?
They lie beneath our feet-we tread,
Regardless, o'er the illustrious dead!
The dust which we shake from our shoe,
Once breathed and lived and loved.
Dames with their charms, bards with their laurel
Read ye who run, and sigh the moral.
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