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ROBIN REDBREAST'S CORN

IN a quiet sheltered valley

Underneath a furzy hill,

Where their light from rocky ledges
Silver threads of water spill,

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,
Wait the brothers God's good time,
When shall spread the Gospel tidings,
Like a flood, from clime to clime.

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,
Stack the turf for winter fire,
Wall about with lichened moorstones
The enclosure of their byre.

Next they drain a weedy marish,
Praying in the midst of toil,

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
Little knew of golden grain.

Said the Prior: 'God will help us

In this hour of bitter loss.'
Then, one spied a Robin Redbreast
Sitting on a wayside cross.

Doubtless came the bird in answer
To the words the Prior did speak,

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

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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
Pass not by with lip of scorn;
God may prosper them, as prospered
Robin Redbreast's ear of corn.

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 doeth well.'

He had grown old with Miriam, and none
Had seen them strive together. She was gone.
The Rabbi smote his breast: 'God doeth well
What He hath done.'

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