Chapter 7

THE VICARAGE.

Our history began at the Vicarage; there let it end. It is a cheerful summer's morning, and Margaret sits in the study of her friend Mr. Middleton, who has learned to look upon his charge as upon a daughter. She is still attired in widow's weeds, but looks more composed and happy than when we saw her many months ago there.

"You will not leave us, then," said the good vicar; "we have not tired you yet?"

"No," answered Margaret, with a sweet contented smile, "here must I live and die. My duties will not suffer me to depart, even were I so inclined. What would my children do?"

"Ah, what indeed? The school would certainly go to rack and ruin."

"And my old friends, the Harpers and the Wakefields?"

"Why, the old ladies would very soon die of a broken heart, no doubt of it; and then, there's our dispensary and little hospital. Why, where should we look for a new apothecary?"

"These are but the worst days of my life, Mr. Middleton, which I dedicate to usefulness. How am I to make good the deficiency of earlier years?"

"By relying, my dear madam, upon the grace and love of Heaven, who in mercy regards not what we have been, but what we are."

"And is there pardon for so great a sinner?"

"Doubt it not, dear lady. Had you not been loved, you never would have been chastised--you would never have become an obedient and willing child. Be sure, dear Mrs Allcraft, that having repented, you are pardoned and reconciled to your Father. Pray, hold fast to this conviction. You have reason to believe it; for truly _you have not despised the chastening of the Lord, nor fainted when you were rebuked of him_."

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KÍEFF.

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF IVÁN KOZLÓFF. BY T.B. SHAW.

O Kiéff! where religion ever seemeth To light existence in our native land; Where o'er Petchérskoi's dome the bright cross gleameth, Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand; Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth Thy plain, and meads that far away expand; And by thy hoary wall, with ceaseless motion, Old Dniéper's foaming swell sweeps on to ocean.

How oft to thee in spirit have I panted, O holy city, country of my heart! How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted On thy fair towers--a sainted thing thou art!-- By Lávra's walls or Dniéper's wave, nor wanted A spell to draw me from this life apart; In thee my country I behold, victorious, Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious.

The moon her soft ray on Petchérskoi poureth, Its domes are shining in the river's wave; The soul the spirit of the past adoreth, Where sleeps beneath thee many a holy grave: Vladímir's shade above thee calmly soareth, Thy towers speak of the sainted and the brave; Afar I gaze, and all in dreamy splendour Breathes of the past--a spell sublime and tender.

There fought the warriors in the field of glory, Strong in the faith, against their country's foe; And many a royal flower yon palace hoary, In virgin loveliness, hath seen to blow. And Báyan sang to them the noble story, And secret rapture in their breast did glow; Hark! midnight sounds--that brazen voice is dying-- A day to meet the vanish'd days is flying.

Where are the valiant?--the resistless lances-- The brands that were as lightning when they waved? Where are the beautiful--whose sunny glances Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved? Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances? Ah! that deep bell hath answer'd what I craved: And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river! Murmurest, Dniéper, still, and flow'st for ever.

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MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.