Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down in the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.

And there I will keep you for ever, Yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

_The Children's Hour._

A brief period of childish gaiety would supervene, to which the man of childlike heart responded readily; and when the little feet had pattered bedward, and the house was silent from the merry little voices, the father would sit on until midnight in his s.p.a.cious empty room. He would occupy himself with letters--long, fragrant, pleasant gossips to his best and most familiar friends at a distance: till midnight came upon him unawares. "It is nearly one o'clock--I am the only person up in the house: my candle is sinking in its socket."

And a double loneliness descended upon him as his weary hand laid down the pen. He remained inert and brooding; the solitude was almost tangible. But this solitude was presently peopled by visions, fraught with ineffable consolation to a mind never out of touch with "other-worldly" influences.

When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished n.o.ble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, Weary with the march of life!

They the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!

_Footsteps of Angels._

"_Empty_ is a horrid word," the Poet had written to a friend--but the room is no longer empty. It has become a habitation for other visitants than the motley throng of flatterers impelled by curiosity, who hindered his morning hours. Unspoken benedictions lie thick upon the air--the man's griefs are soothed away by the touch of invisible fingers. Patient, unselfish, indomitable, he resumes the burden of his daily life with new hope and courage for the morrow.

As torrents in summer, Half dried in their channels, Suddenly rise, though the Sky is still cloudless, For rain has been falling Far off at their fountains;

So hearts that are fainting Grow full to o'erflowing, And they that behold it Marvel, and know not That G.o.d at their fountains Far off has been raining.

_Tales of a Wayside Inn._