I read thine eyes like holy book;
No strife is pictured there;
Upon thy face I see the look
Of one who answers prayer.
Ah, yes!--Thine eyes, beyond this wild,
Behold God's will well done;
Men's songs thine ears are hearing, child;
And so thou smilest on.
The prodigals arise and go,
And God goes forth to meet;
Thou seest them gather, weeping low,
About the Father's feet.
And for their brothers men must bear,
Till all are homeward gone.
O Eyes, ye see my answered prayer!
Smile, Son of God, smile on.
As soon as the vibrations of this song, I do not mean on the chords of
the instrument, but in the echo-caves of our bosoms, had ceased, I
turned to the doctor and said:
"Are you ready with your story yet, Mr. Henry?"
"Oh, dear no!" he answered--"not for days. I am not an idle man like
you, Mr. Smith. I belong to the labouring class."
I knew that he could not have it ready.
"Well," I said, "if our friends have no objection, I will give you
another myself next time."
"Oh! thank you, uncle," said Adela.--"Another fairy tale, please."
"I can't promise you another fairy-tale just yet, but I can promise you
something equally absurd, if that will do."
"Oh yes! Anything you like, uncle. _I_, for one, am sure to like
what you like."
"Thank you, my dear. Now I will go; for I see the doctor waiting to have
a word with you.
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