II.

Work is a Godsend most divine, direct:
The call to active duty, the stern need
For prompt alacrity and instant deed,
Teaches the soul its forces to collect,
Assists it still to raise itself erect
When beaten prostrate like the wind-blown reed
By stormy flaw; it sows the fruitful seed
Of vigorous resolves, that will protect
And grow around fresh shoots of budding hope,
Preserving them from frost of chill despair—
Will keep them free from canker-slough, with
scope
For spreads of tender leaflets, and prepare
The way for future blossoms that may twine
A garland for the brow no more supine.

III.

All the year round come Godsends evermore,
Manifold and multiform, like wild flowers
In summer-time, when warmth and genial showers
Have made the lanes and meads a broider'd floor,
Rainbow-hued, bright, and deep-ingrained more
Than hall for dancers' footing, where the hours
Bring speedy blur: proudly the foxglove towers,
Behung with white or purple bells, a store
Of pyramided beauty; faintly blush
Dwarf mallows, lilac, veined with soft threading;
Poppies, casting their vivid scarlet flush
Athwart the golden corn; umbel-spreading
Hemlock; meek-eyed violets, amid the rank
Tall rampant clamberers up hedge and bank.

IV.

Not more variety in wayside weeds
Than in the Godsends lavishly bestow'd
On man, who takes them often like a load
Of worthless or unvalued waifs; and heeds
No jot their purpose, nor discerning reads
Their undevelop'd good; upon the road
He lets them lie, trod like the toad
Beneath his foot; and, thoughtless, on proceeds.
But, like the jewel in the reptile's head,
Or, like the wholesome virtues in the herb,
Latent, unnotic'd, dully left unread,
Cast by in carelessness, or meod acerb,
The gem-bright eyes unseen, the healthful juice
unsought,
The Godsend's sacred lesson still remains
untaught.

V.

A stormy sky, with glimpse of promise fair;
A trial bravely borne; a sickness gone;
An unexpected sob from heart of stone;
A touch of magnanimity too rare
In one whose candour takes you unaware;
The luxury of weeping when alone,
What time volition lies all prone
After stout will has done its best to bear
The tension of composure hard-sustain'd
Before the eyes of others; a child's cry,
Where loud roaring ends in laughter gained;
A smile from sadden'd heart, you scarce know why:
These sweets distill'd from bitterness of gall,
To my thought, are no less than Godsends all.

VI.

An old expressive simple word is this
Of Godsend, just a something sent from God,
The fountain of all good: an almost odd,
And quaint directness, like a given kiss;
Familiar-holy, pure in granted bliss.
Free and offhand, perhaps, as friendly nod;
But dear and cherish'd as the grassy sod
That lies above the head we daily miss
From out our life, making that life a kind
Of death. As special graces, treasure Godsends!
Oh, let us grateful-hearted bear in mind
The more inobvious, as the clearer ends
For which they are vouchsaf'd to those on whom
They fall, like stars, to brighten night and gloom.

THE SYSTEM JONES.

A GREATER man than Soyer is no more. Mr.
Hyacinth Jones died suddenly at his villa near
London, in the sixtieth year of his age. He was
a great benefactor to London society, yet he
may be said to have died almost unknown by
the gay and thoughtless and light-hearted, who
eat and drink and dance through the butterfly
months of this vast Babylon; but he was well
known to those who wear the "iron crown" of
housekeeping. It was by his wonderful efforts
alone that the master and mistress of the house
were enabled to sit without aching brows at
their own dinner-tables; nay, positively to enjoy
the gastronomic triumphs of the repast.

Hyacinth Jones's place of business was situated
in one of the offshoot streets of Bond-street — a
small private house. You knocked at the door,
a respectable waiter-like person gave you
admittance.  No repulsive steam of dinners
offended the nose; you were at once ushered
into a well-furnished room. A faint, disagreeable
smell was observable. This arose from a mass of
newly-printed books, pamphlets, blue-books,
reviews, journals, magazines, British and foreign,
which were arranged in order on mahogany
ledges against the walls. At one glance round
that room you beheld the sum total of the
world's latest intellectual efforts, damp and
steaming from the press. Then there were
auctioneers' catalogues of all recent sales of
interest—rare books, old wine, pictures, china,
coins, old furniture, and the thousand other
curious objects of taste which circulate through
rich society. Above the ledges were shelves filled
with valuable books of reference on every conceivable
subject—history, natural science, politics, theology,
sport, &c. &c.

"And who read all this mass of print?
Hyacinth Jones?"

"You doubt, madam? Remember the
catalogue of books Mr. Buckle has read."

"But what has all this to do with dinners?"

"In a little while, you shall know, madam."

Some folks affirm that a partisan ought not to
be a biographer. But, behold my dilemma! I
am a partisan, yet, as Hyacinth Jones was far
more unreserved with me than with any other
person living, I alone possess the materials
necessary to sketch his life. He was, in truth,
remarkably secretive, rivalling the present
Napoleon in. that quality; but, with regard to
the outer man, and particularly in the character
of his face, he always reminded me of the portraits
of the greater Emperor. I did not make Mr.
Jones's acquaintance until middle age had
destroyed the fineness of his features, rendering
them full and puffy; but even then his