And there it lay upon the stand,
Open!--he had not left it so.
He grasped it, with a cry; for, lo!
He saw that some angelic hand,
While he was gone, had finished it!
There't was complete, as he had planned!
There, at the end, stood _finis_, writ
And gilded as no man could do,--
Not even that pious anchoret,
Bilfrid, the wonderful,--nor yet
The miniatore Ethelwold,--
Nor Durham's Bishop, who of old
(England still hoards the priceless leaves)
Did the Four Gospels all in gold.
And Friar Jerome nor spoke nor stirred,
But, with his eyes fixed on that word,
He passed from sin and want and scorn;
And suddenly the chapel-bells
Rang in the holy Christmas-Morn!
In those wild wars which racked the land,
Since then, and kingdoms rent in twain.
The Friar's Beautiful Book was lost,--
That miracle of hand and brain:
Yet, though its leaves were torn and tossed,
The volume was not writ in vain!
* * * * *
LITERARY LIFE IN PARIS.
THE DRAWING-ROOM.
PART I.
We are no "lion-hunters.
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