The Boy and the Angel

Morning, evening, noon, and night, "Praise God!" sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard he laboured, long and well; O'er his work the boy's curls fell. But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise God!" Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew. Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son: "As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way.…