CRUCE AND CORONA.
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Corona's gaze is resting listlessly.She sees not for awhile the childish formThat near her door for recognition waits,Then enters silently and by her stands.It is the child-guide of the pilgrim blind.She brings a message. And Corona readsThe words he uttered in his dying hour.He asks that to her care the little childMay be intrusted; and he closes thus:"Perchance around thee even now, my friend,The clouds of sorrow gather. Standing nowUpon the borders of the blessed land,My prescient vision bids me not recallThe words of prophecy to thee I spake.But never in thy soul let faith and hopeGrow weary. Thou at last thy crown shalt win.Be faithful unto death, till eventide,And then at eventide it shall be light."
The coming of this little child, that bringsNew duties, from her meditative griefRecalls Corona into active life.Her thoughts, that days and weeks within the pastHave wandered, dwelling ever with the dead,Now turn confiding to the orphan's God,And in the promise that the blessed dead
