Her white arms were veiled with laces rare,
While mine are thin, and blue, and bare
To the o'er-keen knife of the midnight air;
My fingers ache with pain,
Whilst hers with jewels are e'en weighed down,-
Jewels to flash in an empress' crown,-
While of hunger I die, in tears I drown,
Here in the sobbing rain.
Aye, his bride is she, and what then am I,
That the world, with its scorn, should pass me by,-
With its mocking lip and jeering eye?
And yet, though no saintly prayer was said,
No bride's veil hid my love-bowed head,
A God looked down, and we were wed,-
Aye, sob, thou sobbing rain!
See the lightning flash in yonder sky,
Like a bold, bad thought in a villain's eye;
What a night for death! oh, that I could die,
And so end all this pain!
My feet are so weary, my feet are so sore,
Would they bear me, I wonder, as far as the moor?
Would they take me in, who watch by the door,-
In from this sobbing rain?
What darkness is this which veileth mine eyes?
Oh! 'tis my tears, or the mists of the skies,——
But then my heart, and my breath, how it flies!
And yet I feel no pain.
There! strange lights are gleaming from yon open door,
But 'tis not the one on the distant moor,
And strange voices call me-I ne'er heard before.-
Out of the sobbing rain.
The look of sympathy, the gentle word,
Spoken so low that only angels heard;
The secret art of pure self-sacrifice,
Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes;
These are not lost.
The sacred music of a tender strain,
Wrung from a poet's heart by grief and pain,
And chanted timidly, with doubt and fear,
To busy crowds who scarcely pause to hear;
It is not lost.
The silent tears that fall at dead of night,
Over soiled robes which once were pure and white,
The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,
Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole;
These are not lost.
The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,
When dreams had less of self and more of truth;
The childlike faith, so tranquil and so sweet,
Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;
These are not lost.
The kindly plans devised for others' good,
So seldom guessed, so little understood;
The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win
Some wanderer from the woeful ways of sin;
These are not lost.
Not lost, O Lord, for in thy city bright,
Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light!
And things long hidden from our gaze below,
Thou wilt reyeal, and we shall surely know
They were not lost.
THE HERITAGE.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick and stone and gold;
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares:
The bank may break, the factory burn;
Some breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits wants:
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;
What does the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What does the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-won merit; Content that from employment springs; A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What does the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor;
Courage, if sorrow comes, to bear it;
A fellow feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door:
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
O rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all other level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whitens, soft, white hands;
That is the best crop from the lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fec.
O poor man's son, scorn not thy state!
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;
Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both children of the same dear GOD;
Prove title to your heirship vast,
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.
MARK TWAIN TELLS AN ANECDOTE OF A. WARD.
As Artemus was once traveling in the cars, dreading to be bored, and feeling miserable, a man approached him, sat down, and said,—
"Did you hear that last thing on Horace Greeley?"
"Greeley? Greeley?" said Artemus, "Horace Greeley? Who is he?"
The man was quiet about five minutes. said,
"George Francis Train is kicking up a good deal of a row over England. Do you think they will put him in a bastile?"
"Train? Train? George Francis Train?" said Artemus, solemnly, "I never heard of him."
This ignorance kept the man quiet about fifteen minutes, then he said,
"What do you think about General Grant's chances for the Presidency? Do you think they will run him?”
"Grant? Grant? hang it, man," said Artemus, “you appear to know more strangers than any man I ever saw." The man was furious. He walked off, but at last came back and said,—
"You confounded ignoramus, did you ever hear of Adam?” Artemus looked up and said,— "What was his other name?"
THE DYING STREET ARAB.—MATTHIAS BARR.
I knows what you mean, I'm a dyin';
Well, I ain't no worse nor the rest;
'Taint them as does nothin' but prayin',
I reckon, is allus the best.
I ain't had no father nor mother
A-tellin' me wrong from the right;
The streets ain't the place,-is it, parson?—
For sayin' your prayers of a night.
I never knowed who was my father,
And mother, she died long ago;
The folks here, they brought me up somehow, It ain't much they have teached me, I know.
Yet I think they'll be sorry, and miss me,
When took right away from this here,
For sometimes I catches them slyly
A-wipin' away of a tear.
And they says as they hopes I'll get better;
I can't be no worse when I'm dead;
I ain't had so jolly a time on't,—
A-dyin' by inches for bread.
I've stood in them streets precious often,
When the wet's been a-pourin' down,
And I ain't had so much as a mouthful,
Nor never so much as a brown.
I've looked in them shops, with the winders
Chokeful of what's tidy to eat,
And I've heerd gents a-larfin' and talkin',
While I drops like a dorg at their feet.
But it's kind on you, sir, to sit by me;
I ain't now afeerd o' your face;
And I hopes, if it's true as you tells me,
We'll meet in that t'other place.
I hopes as you'll come when it's over,
And talk to them here in the court;
They'll mind what you says, you're a parson,
There won't be no larkin' nor sport.
You'll tell them as how I died happy,
And hopin' to see them again;
That I'm gone to that land where the weary
Is freed of his trouble and pain.
Now open that book as you give me,
I feels as it never tells lies,
And read me them words-you know, guv'nor,-
As is good for a chap when he dies.
There, give me your hand, sir, and thankee
For the good as you've done a poor lad;
Who knows, had they teached me some better,
I mightn't have growed up so bad.
|