ROBIN REDBREAST'S CORN IN a quiet sheltered valley Underneath a furzy hill, Where their light from rocky ledges Patient Benedictine brothers Thatch their cot with russet fern, Singing' Ave, Maris Stella!' To the flowing of the burn. They have come from southern regions To the wastes of Finisterre, Without scrip, or purse, or weapon, Trusting in the might of prayer. In a pleasant sunward hollow Of the barren purple fell, They have built a rustic chapel, Hung a little tinkling bell. There, alone in Christ believing, Yonder is a Druid circle, Where the priests dance on the dew, Singing of Ceridwen's kettle, And the ploughing of old Hu. Now the brothers cut the heather, Next they drain a weedy marish, And with plough of rude construction Draw slight furrows through the soil. Then seek wheat.—It was forgotten ; All their labour seems in vain ; The barbarian Kelts about them Said the Prior: 'God will help us In this hour of bitter loss.' Doubtless came the bird in answer For a heavy wheat-ear dangled From the Robin's polished beak. Then the brothers, as he dropped it, Picked it up and careful sowed, And abundantly in autumn Reaped the harvest where they strewed. Do you mark the waving glory O'er the Breton hill-slopes flung? All that wealth from Robin Redbreast's Do you mark the many churches Scattered o'er that pleasant land? All results are of the preaching Of that Benedictine band. Therefore, Christian, small beginnings THE RABBI JOACHIM. (1) [Talmud Berachot, ix. fol. 60.] THE RABBI JOACHIM, no little sore At heart to see fair Bethlehem no more, Went forth with staff in hand, and drooping head, And locked his door. The Rabbi Joachim, whate'er befell, Said: 'Man as God is not; he cannot tell What is the best for him; but what God doth, He had grown old with Miriam, and none |