"And all this shall be thine," they said,

All this be thine, and more, So thou wilt bind thyself to us, And leave the weak and poor! "Thou that art weak and poor thyself, A crowned queen shalt be!". Said Marien, "In the wilderness The Tempter came, and he Offered to Jesus Christ such gifts As now ye offer me!"

Those rugged brows grew dark.

With us," they fiercely said,

64

Come now

"And see what never daylight saw,
The halls of dool and dread!"

Then unto chambers hidden, vast,
Mysterious, far from view,

They led her; there was set the rack,

The knotted cord, the screw,

And many a horrid instrument,

Whose dark ensanguined hue

Told of their purpose, "These," said they,
"Many strange wonders do!

"Look well; could'st thou endure these things?
Strong men have died ere now
Under their torment; men were they,
A little child art thou!"

Then Marien meekly answered, “What

God suffereth you to dare,
He, to whom darkness is as light,

Will strengthen me to bear!"

"Come onward yet," they said; and down

Damp, broken stairs they went;
Down, down to hidden vaults of stone,
Through vapours pestilent.

And then with sullen iron keys
They opened doors of stone;

And heavy chainèd captives there

They showed her, one by one.

Old, white-haired men; men middle-aged,
That had been strong of limb;
But each, now pallid, hollow-eyed,
Like spectres worn and dim.
And many, as the dull door oped,
Ne'er lifted up the head;-
Heart-broken victims of long pain,
Whose very hope was dead.
Others with feverish restlessness
Sprang up, and with quick cry,
That thrilled the hearer to the soul,
Demanded liberty.

With bleeding heart went Marien on;
And her conductors spake,
-These are our victims; these await

The rack, the cord, the stake.

And as these are, so shalt thou be,
If thou our will gainsay;
Accept our service, pride, and power;
Or, on this very day,

THEN forth they brought her; gave her wine And pleasant food to eat;

And "rest thee, Marien, in our arms,"

Sung syren voices sweet.

"Rest thee within our arms; refresh

Thy fainting soul with wine;
Eat and be glad; forget the past,
And make all pleasure thine!"
"Tempt me not!" said the feeble child,
"Take hence your spiced bowl;
Is 't not enough to rack my limbs,
But you must vex my soul?

"Look at my flesh, which ye have torn;
Look at your bloody rack;-
Take hence your gifts, and let me go
To my own people back.

"To my own people let me go,
A bruised and broken reed;

I for your purpose am unmeet;
Let me go hence with speed."

So, in her weakness, prayed the child;
But those remorseless men,
More dead than living, bore her back
Unto their prison-den.

Into a noisome prison-house,
With iron-doors made fast,
'Mong felons and 'mong murderers,
Was gentle Marien cast.
Upon the hard, cold prison-floor
Sick unto death she lay,

As if God had forsaken her,

For many a weary day.

She thought of her sweet forest life,
And of those creatures small,
Weak, woodland creatures, tamed by love,
That came unto her call.

She thought of him, the forest-lord,
And of the forest-grange;
Of the delicious life she led,

With liberty to range.

95

And as she thought, even as a child's,

The ceaseless tears did flow,

For torturing pain and misery

Had brought her spirit low. When one from out the felon-band

Came softly to her side,

And "do not weep, thou little child!"

With pitying voice, he cried.
"At sight of thee, I know not why,
My softened heart doth burn,
And the gone tenderness of youth
Doth to my soul return.

"I think upon my early days,

Like unto days of heaven;
And I, that have not wept for years,
Even as a child, shed ceaseless tears,
And pray to be forgiven!"

"Blessed be God!" said Marien,
And rose up from the floor;
"I was not hither brought in vain!
His mercy I adore,

Who out of darkness brought forth light!"
And thus she wept no more.

But ever of the Saviour taught;
How he came down to win,
With love, and suffering manifold,
The sinner from his sin.

How, not to kings and mighty men
He came, nor to the wise,
But to the thief and murderer,
And those whom men despise.

And how, throughout the host of heaven
Goes yet a louder praise

O'er one poor sinner who doth turn
From his unrighteous ways,
Than o'er a hundred godly men,
Who sin not all their days.
Thus with the felons she abode,
And that barred prison rude
Was as if angels dwelt therein,
And not fierce men of blood;

For God had her captivity

Turned into means of good.

Now all this while sweet Marien's friends,
Who in the town remained,

Of her took painful thought, resolved
Her freedom should be gained.

And at the last they compassed it,

With labour long and great;

And through the night they hurried her
Unto the city-gate.

There many a mother stood, and child,
Weeping with friendly woe,

Thus, thus to meet, as 'twere from death,
And then to bid her go.

To bid her go, whom so they loved,
Nor once more see her face;

To bid her go; to speed her forth

To some more friendly place.

Thus, amid blessings, prayers, and tears
About the break of day,
She left the city, praising God
For her release; and swiftly trod
Upon her unknown way.

PART VIII.

A BOW-SHOT from the city-gate
Turned Marien from the plain,
Intent by unfrequented ways

The mountain-land to gain.

With bounding step she onward went,
Over the moorland fells;

O'er fragrant tracks of purple thyme,
And crimson heather-bells.

Joyful in her release she went,

Still onward yet, and higher;

Up many a mossy, stony steep,

Through many a flock of mountain sheep,
By the hill-tarns so dark and deep,

As if she could not tire.

Onward and upward still she went
Among the breezy hills,
Singing for very joyfulness
Unto the singing rills.

The days of her captivity,

The days of fear and pain, Were past, and now through shade and shine She wandered free again.

Free, like the breezes of the hill,

Free, like the waters wild;
And in her fullness of delight,
Unceasingly from height to height
Went on the blessèd child.

And ever when she needed food,
Some wanderer of the hill
Drew forth the morsel from his scrip,
And bade her eat her fill.

For He who fed by Cherith-brook
The prophet in his need,
Of this his wandering little one
Unceasingly had heed.

And ever when she needed rest,
Some little cove she found,
So green, so sheltered, and so still,
Upon the bosom of the hill,
As angels girt it round.

Thus hidden 'mong the quiet hills
Alone, yet wanting nought,
She dwelt secure, until her foes
For her no longer sought.

Then forth she journeyed. Soon the hills

Were of more smooth descent;

And downward now, and onward still,

Toward the sea she went.

Toward the great sea for many days;
And now she heard its roar;
Had sunlit glimpses of it now,
And now she trod the shore.
A rugged shore of broken cliffs,

And barren wave-washed sand,
Where only the dry sea-wheat grew
By patches on the strand.

A weary way walked Marien
Beside the booming sea,
Nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman
Throughout the day saw she.

A weary, solitary way;

And as the day declined
Over the dark and troubled sea
Arose a stormy wind.

The heavy waves came roaring in

With the strong coming tide;

The rain poured down, aud deep dark night Closed in on every side.

There stood the homeless Marien

With bare, unsandaled feet; And on her form, with pitiless force,

The raging tempest beat.

Clasping her hands, she stood forlorn,

"In tempest, and in night:"
She cried, "Oh Lord, I trust in thee,
And thou wilt lead me right!"
Now underneath a shelving bank
Of sea-driven sand, there stood
A miscrable hut, the home

Of a poor fisher good,

Whose loving wife but yesternight
Died in his arms, and he,

Since that day's noon, alone had been
Casting his nets at sea.

At noon he kissed his little ones,

And would be back, he said,

Long ere night closed; but with the night
Arose that tempest dread.

It was an old and crazy boat,
Wherein the man was set,
And soon 't was laden heavily
With many a laden net.

"Oh sorrow, sorrow!" groaned he forth,
As rose the sudden squall,
Thinking upon the mother dead,
And on his children small.

"Oh sorrow, sorrow!" loud he cried,
As the helm flew from his hand,
And he knew the boat was sinking
But half a league from land.

"Oh sorrow, sorrow!" as he sank
Was still his wailing cry;
And Marien heard amid the storm,
That voice of misery.
N

9

Now all this while the children small
Kept in their dreary place,
Troubled and sad, and half afear'd

Of their dead mother's face.

And when, to while the time, they played
With shells beside the door,

They found they had not hearts for mirth,
And so they played no more.
Yet keeping up with forced content
Their hearts as best they might,
Still wishing afternoon were gone,
And it was only night.

But when, hour after hour went on,
And the night tempest black
Raged o'er the stormy sea, and still
The father came not back;

It would have touched a heart of stone
To see their looks of fear-

So young and so forlorn; their words
Of counsel small to hear.

And now they shouted through the storm;
And then with better wit,

As they had seen their mother do,

A fire of wood they lit,
That he might see the light afar

And steer his boat by it.

Unto this light came Marien;

And ere her weary feet

Had reached the floor, the children ran
With eager arms to meet
Their loving father, as they thought,

And give him welcome sweet.
Alas! the father even then

Had run his mortal race;

But God had sent his Comforter
To fill his earthly place.

PART IX.

WOE's me, what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed;
What loving hearts are sundered,

And yet man takes no heed!

He goeth on his daily course,

Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine;
That turn for him the mazy wheel;
That delve for him the mine.

And pitieth not the children small,

In noisy factories dim,

That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him!

To him they are but as the stones
Beneath his feet that lie:

It entereth not his thoughts that they
From him claim sympathy.

It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferer's groan,
That in his righteous eye, their life
Is precious as his own.

This moves him not. But let us now
Unto the fisher's shed,
Where sat his weeping little ones
Three days beside the dead.

It was a solitary waste

Of barren sand, which bore
No sign of human dwelling-place
For miles along the shore.

Yet to the scattered dwellers there
Sped Marien, and besought
That of the living and the dead

They would take Christian thought.

So in the churchyard by the sea.

The senseless dead was laid: "And now what will become of us!" The weeping children said.

"For who will give us bread to eat?
The neighbours are so poor!
And he, our kinsman in the town,
Would drive us from his door.

"For he is rich and pitiless,

With heart as cold as stone! Who will be parents to us now That ours are dead and gone?" "Weep not," said faithful Marien, "Man's heart is not so hard, But it your friendless misery Will tenderly regard!

"And I with you will still abide

Your friendless souls to cheer, Be father and mother both to you; for this God sent me here. "And to your kinsman in the town, Who hath such store of gold, I will convey you: God can change His spirit stern and cold.

"And ye, like angels of sweet love,

From earth his soul may win.
Fear not; and we with morning light
The journey will begin."

They took their little worldly store;
And at the break of day,
Leaving the lonesome sea-side shed,
Set out upon their way.

'Mong sandy hills their way they wound;
O'er sea-grass desk and harsh;
By many a land-mark lone and still;
Through many a salt sea-marsh.

And thus for twice seven days they went

A little loving band,

Walking along their weary way:
Like angels, hand in hand.

And everywhere kind Christian folks
They found, as Marien said,
Who gave them lodging for the night,
And gave them daily bread.

And thus they pilgrimed, day by day,
Alone yet not cast down,
Strengthened by Marien's company,
Unto the sea-port town.

A busy town beside the sea,
Where men were all astir,
Buying and selling; eager-eyed,
Two different races, yet allied, —
Merchant and mariner.

A place of ships, whose name was known
Far off, beyond the main;

A busy place of trade, where nought
Was in repute but gain.

Thither they came, those children poor,
About the eventide;

And where dwelt he, their kinsman rich,
They asked on every side.

After long asking, one they found,
An old man and a poor,
Who undertook to lead them straight

Unto the kinsman's door.

But ever as he went along
He to himself did say,
Low broken sentences, as thus,
"Their kinsman!-- well-a-way!"
All through a labyrinth of walls

Blackened with cloudy smoke,
He led them, where was heard the forge
And the strong hammer's stroke.

And beneath lofty windows dim

In many a doleful row, Whence came the jangle of quick looms,

Down to the courts below.

Still on the children, terrified,
With wildered spirits passed;
Until of these great mammon halls,

They reached the heart at last,

A little chamber hot and dim,
With iron bars made fast.

There sate the kinsman, shrunk and lean,
And leaden-eyed and old,
Busied before a lighted lamp
In sealing bags of gold.

The moment that they entered in,
He clutched with pallid fear
His heavy bags, as if he thought

That sudden thieves were near.

"Rich man!" said Marien, "ope thy bags

And of thy gold be free,

Make gladsome cheer for Heaven hath sent A blessing unto thee!"

"What!" said the miser, "is there news

Of my lost argosy ?"

"Better than gold, or merchant-ships,

Is that which thou shalt win," Said Marien, "thine immortal soul

From its black load of sin."

"Look at these children, thine own blood,"

And then their name she told;

"Open thine heart to do them good,

To love them more than gold;And what thou givest will come back

To thee, a thousand-fold!"

"Ah," said the miser, "even these

Some gainful work may do,

My looms stand still; of youthful hands I have not half enow;

I shall have profit in their toil;

Yes, child, thy words are true!"

"Thou fool!" said Marien, "still for gain, To cast thy soul away!

The Lord be judge 'twixt these and thee Upon his reckoning day!

"These little ones are fatherless, He sees them day and night; And as thou doest unto them,

On thee he will requite!"
"Gave I not alms upon a time?"
Said he, with anger thrilled;
"And when I die, give I not gold,
A stately church to build?

"What wouldst thou more? my flesh and blood
I seek not to gainsay.
But what I give, is it unmeet
Their labour should repay!"

So saying, in an iron chest,

He locked his bags of gold,

And bade the children follow him,
In accents harsh and cold.

PART X.

Oн leave us not sweet Marien!"
The little children spake;
For if thou leave us here, alone,
Our wretched hearts will break."

She left them not-kind Marien!
And in a noisome room,
Day after day, week after week,

They laboured at the loom.

The while they thought with longing souls
Upon the breezy strand,
The flying shuttles, to and fro,

Passed through each little hand.

The while they thought with aching hearts,
Upon their parents dear,

The growing web was watered,
With many a bitter tear.

Their hands were thin; their cheeks were pale That were of rosy hue.

The miser kinsman in and out

Passed ever and anon;

Nor ever did he speak a word,
Except to urge them on.

Wo-worth those children, hard bested,
They worked the livelong day;
Nor was there one, save Marien,
A soothing word to say:-
So, amid toil and pain of heart,
The long months wore away.

The long, the weary months passed on,
And the hard kinsman told
Over his profits; every loom

Increased the hoard of gold;

""Tis well!" said he, "let more be spun
That more may yet be sold!"

So passed the time; and with the toil
Of children weak and poor,
The sordid kinsman's treasure-hoards
Increased more and more.

But ere a year was come and gone,

The spirit of the boy

Was changed; with natures fierce and rudo He found his chiefest joy.

The hardness of the kinsman's soul

Wrought on him like a spell, Exciting in his outraged heart,

Revenge and hatred feil;

The will impatient to control;
The spirit to rebel.

Hence was there wariare 'twixt the two,
The wok against the strong;—

A hopeless, miserable strife

That could not last for long:

How can the young, the poor, contend
Against the rich man's wrong!

The tender trouble of his eye,

Was gone; his brow was cold;
His speech, like that of desperate men,
Was reckless, fierce, and bold.

No more he kissed his sister's cheek;
Nor soothed her as she wept;
No more he said at Marien's knee
His prayers before he slept.