II.

THE SERVANT.

I dream'd, and saw in glory clad, and crown'd
As with the sun, than brightest noon more bright,
The Son of Man; an army girt him round,

Bath'd in the dew of that most dazzling light,
That utter'd ever and anon

A joyous song, as he march'd on.

And, pointing to the radiant train he drew,
He ask'd," wilt thou become my servant too?"

O'erpower'd and giddy with the excessive blaze,
Downward I hung in bashful awe my brow,
And ponder'd with myself in wild amaze.
O no! I cried, I am not dreaming now;
And then I look'd, and look'd again,
With growing rapture on the train,

Then prone on earth the glorious chief ador'd,
And cried, "yea, count me 'mid thy servants, Lord!"

I rose; the scene was chang'd, 'twas dim eclipse; A cross stood opposite, where writh'd with pain Hung one that spoke to me with quivering lips, And, speaking, pointed to a little train

In rent and squalid garments drest,

That sobb'd and cried, and beat the breast,

'Mid jeering multitudes a wretched few.

He ask'd, "wilt thou become my servant too?"

I gaz'd, and lo! the self-same form it seem'd
Which I had seen in dazzling glory flame.
I gaz'd again, and then I hop'd I dream'd;
Again, then cried it cannot be the same.

Then turn'd, lest one look more might show
Too clear what I was loth to know.

No man can serve two masters—thus I spoke,
Asham'd at my own answer, and awoke.

O double-minded servant of one Lord,

Is not thy life e'en such a dream as this? Thou art not his 'mid cross, and shame, and sword: But thou art his 'mid pomp, and wealth, and bliss. Dull dreamer, up! arise, awake,

Thy silken bands of slumber break,

Thro' night the day, thro' death the life is given,

So thro' the opprobrious cross the glorious thrones of heaven.

CHAPTER XX.

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.

THIS, said my friend, one day, as he opened a door at the head of the first flight of the broad oaken staircase of the manor-house, and discovered a spacious chamber, through whose mullioned window, partly blinded by the green leaves of a vine, the sun was shining most cheerfully, and throwing in fine relief the carving of the wainscotted sides and elaborate mantle-piece; this was known in our family by the title of “ our friend's room." For here was lodged, whenever he came among us, he who was peculiarly reckoned the friend of the family; however full the house might be when he arrived, this room was always reserved for him. So completely was he identified as its occupant, that in our childish minds this circumstance of

possession formed a constant and leading point in our notion of him. He was of studious habits, and every morning in the colder months a fire was lighted at an early hour in that grate. Often on a cold winter's morn, when our own fire was scarcely sufficient to admit our shivering cowering crowd all to a due share of its warmth, I have stolen to his room, and shared with him the comforts of his hearth. He by no means disliked these visits, but rather said that he always enjoyed his studies the more when he had some one of us in his company: it gave him spirits, and we were extremely cautious against causing him any voluntary interruption further than by our mere presence, At intervals he would lay down his book, chatter with me for a few minutes, tell me a tale, cross-examine me good-humouredly in my book-learning, ask about my brothers, sisters, or companions, then resume his studies, and leave me in eager expectation of the next interval. At the moment that our bell rang for prayer, the creak of his opening door was heard, and his lively countenance with its benevolent smile imparted additional cheerfulness as he entered the room where we were assembled. We all found pleasure in his company, from oldest to youngest, from gravest to

T

most playful, for he could adapt himself to either class, in such a manner, however, that neither the one ever complained of his levity, nor the other of his austerity.

Many, if not very many families, have some one friend thus distinguished above all the rest, who is reckoned peculiarly the friend of the family, and occupies often a nearer place in their confidence than their nearest relations out of doors. He is commonly the friend of the father's youth, his comrade at school and college, and grows dearer to him as the recollection of young and happy days becomes more pleasing with advancing years. He is a monument, and sort of representative of what is past, and seems to embody and keep upon earth what had otherwise long ago gone for ever. To the whole family he is the eye and chief organ, as it were, by which they become acquainted with the external world. He supplies them with information, is consulted on every difficulty, he is their help and comfort in sorrow and embarrassment; and to descend to his more trifling relations, he is to the children the agreeable channel of procuring them indulgencies from their parents he is their grand source of appeal in all their disputes on matters beyond their own