s, and I will promise
them that they will not easily find a fairer corner in all England.
The Bath road, it is true, is now comparatively deserted, and no
well-appointed coaches flash by in front of Calcott Park. But it is
an easy three miles' walk or ride from Reading Station, and by missing
one train the pilgrim may get a glimpse of English country-life under
its most favorable aspects, while at the same time, if skeptical as
to this "strange yet true narration," as the metrical chronicler calls
it, he may at any rate satisfy himself as to the marriage of B. Child
and the Berkshire Lady, and the birth of their two daughters, by
inspecting the parish register at Tilchurst church for the years 1710
to 1713.

THOMAS HUGHES.

THE SABBATH OF THE LOST[1].

Mid homes eternal of the blessed
Erewhile beheld in trance of prayer,
A secret wish the saint possessed
To see the regions of despair.

The Power in whose omniscient ken
The thoughts of every heart abide
Sent him to those lost souls of men,
A splendid spirit for his guide--

Michael, the warrior, the prince
Of those before the throne who dwell,
The brightest of archangels since,
Eclipsed, the son of morning fell.

Down through the voids of light they sped
Till Heaven's anthems faintly rung
Through darkening space, and overhead
Earth's planets dim and dwindled hung.

Still downward into lurid gloom
The saint and angel took their way,
Moving within a clear cool room,
The light benign of heavenly day.

The wretched thronged on every side.
"Have mercy on us, radiant twain!
O Paul! beloved of God!" they cried,
"Pray Heaven for surcease of our pain."

"Weep, weep, unhappy ones, bewail!
We too our prayers and tears will lend:
Our supplication may prevail,
And haply God some respite send."

Then upward from the lost there swept
Entreaty multitudinous,
As every wave of ocean wept:
"O Christ! have mercy upon us!"

And as their clamor rose on high
Beyond the pathway of the sun,
Heav'n's happy legions joined the cry,
Their voices melting into one.

The saint, up-gazing through the dew
Of pity brimming o'er his eyes,
Discerned in Heav'n's remotest blue
The Son of God lean from the skies.

Then through their agonies were heard
The tones which still'd the angry sea,
The voice of the Eternal Word:
"And do ye ask repos