Who smoothly sank into the tomb, with the smile of fraud upon his face,

And the last black deed of his existence was injury without redress;

For deaf is the ear of the dead, and can hear no palliating reasons;

The smiter is not among the living, and Right pleadeth but in vain.

Yet shall the curse of the oppressed be as blight upon the grave of the unjust;

Yea, bitterly shall that hand-writing testify against him at the judgment.

I saw the humble relation that tended the peevishness of wealth,

And ministered, with kind hand, to the wailings of disease and discontent;

I noted how watchfulness and care were feeding on the marrow of her youth,

How heavy was the yoke of dependence, loaded by petty tyranny;

Yet I heard the frequent suggestion, -It can be but a little longer,

Patience and mute submission shall one day reap a rich reward.

So tacitly enduring much, waited that humble friend, Putting off the lover of her youth until the dawn of wealth:

And it came, that day of release, and the freed heart could not sorrow,

For now were the years of promise to yield their golden harvest:

Hope, so long deferred, sickly sparkled in her eye, The miserable past was forgotten, as she looked for the happier future,

And she checked, as unworthy and ungrateful, the dark suspicious thought

That perchance her right had been the safer, if not left alone with honor :

But, alas, the sad knowledge soon came, that her stern task-master's will

Hath rewarded her toil with a jibe, her patience with utter destitution!

Shall not the scourge of justice lash that cruel coward, Who mingled the gall of ingratitude with the bitterness of disappointment?

Shall not the hate of men, and vengeance fiercely pursuing,

Hunt down the wretched being that sinneth in his grave? He fancied his idle self safe from the wrath of his fel

lows,

But Hades rose as he came in, to point at him the finger of scorn;

And again must he meet that orphan-maid to answer her face to face,

And her wrongs shall cling around his neck, to hinder him from rising with the just:

For his last most solemn act hath linked his name with liar,

And the crime of Ananias is branded on his brow!

A good man commendeth his cause to the one great Patron of innocence,

Convinced of justice at the last, and sure of good mean

while.

He knoweth he hath a Guardian, wise and kind and strong,

And can thank Him for giving, or refusing, the trust or the curse of riches:

His confidence standeth as a rock; he dreadeth not malice nor caprice,

Nor the whisperings of artful men, nor envious secret influence;

He scorneth servile compromise, and the pliant mouthings of deceit ;

He maketh not a show of love, where he cannot concede esteem;

He regardeth ill-got wealth, as the root most fruitful of wretchedness,

So he walketh in straight integrity, leaning on God and his right.

No gain, but by its price: labor, for the poor man's meal,

Ofttimes heart-sickening toil, to win him a morsel for his hunger:

Labor, for the chapman at his trade, a dull unvaried round,

Year after year, unto death; yea, what a weariness is it!

Labor for the pale-faced scribe, drudging at his hated

desk,

Who bartereth for needful pittance the untold gold of health;

Labor, with fear, for the merchant, whose hopes are ventured on the sea;

Labor, with care, for the man of law, responsible in his gains;

Labor, with envy and annoyance, where strangers will thee wealth;

Labor, with indolence and gloom, where wealth falleth from a father;

Labor unto all, whether aching thews, or aching head,

or spirit,

The curse on the sons of men, in all their states, is

labor.

Nevertheless, to the diligent labor bringeth blessing: The thought of duty sweeteneth toil, and travail is as pleasure;

And time spent in doing hath a comfort that is not for the idle,

The hardship is transmuted into joy by the dear alchemy

of Mercy.

Labor is good for a man, bracing up his energies to conquest,

And without it life is dull, the man perceiving himself

useless:

For wearily the body groaneth, like a door on rusty hinges,

And the grasp of the mind is weakened, as the talons of a caged vulture.

Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened

misery:

Enough hath never caused misery, but often quickened

happiness:

Enough is less than thy thought, O pampered creature

of society,

And he that hath more than enough, is a thief of the rights of his brother.

of Inuentior.

Man is proud of his mind, boasting that it giveth him divinity,

Yet with all its powers can it originate nothing; For the great God into all his works hath largely poured out himself,

Saving one special property, the grand prerogative,— Creation.

To improve and expand is ours, as well as to limit and

defeat;

But to create a thought or a thing is hopeless and impossible.

Can a man make matter?- and yet this would-be god Thinketh to make mind, and form original idea:

The potter must have his clay, and the mason his

quarry,

And mind must drain ideas from everything around it.

Doth the soil generate herbs, or the torrid air breed

flies,

Or the water frame its monads, or the mist its swarming blight?

Mediately, through thousand generations, having seed within themselves,

All things, rare or gross, own one common Father. Truly spake Wisdom, There is nothing new under the

sun:

We only arrange and combine the ancient elements of all things.

Invention is activity of mind, as fire is air in motion; A sharpening of the spiritual sight, to discern hidden aptitudes:

From the basket and acanthus, is modelled the graceful capital;

The shadowed profile on the wall helpeth the limner to his likeness;

The footmarks, stamped in clay, lead on the thoughts to printing;

The strange skin garments cast upon the shore suggest another hemisphere;

A falling apple taught the sage pervading gravitation; The Huron is certain of his prey, from tracks upon the grass;

And shrewdness, guessing out the hint, followeth on the trail:

But the hint must be given, the trail must be there, or the keenest sight is as blindness.

Behold the barren reef, which an earthquake hath just left dry;

It hath no beauty to boast of, no harvest of fair fruits: But soon the lichen fixeth there, and, dying, diggeth its own grave,

And softening suns and splitting frosts crumble the reluctant surface;