A feeling yet without a naine, Each sordid thought of self above, Warmer than Friendship's wavering flame, Yet softer than the fires of Love! No change of purpose has the power And I, by minstrel arts beguiled, Have felt these passions, wild and strong, Though seldom have the muses smiled Propitious on my artless song. And Mary, sure I need not say That I have loved, and loved in vain; Though Science now has strewn my way With joys that lull the sense of pain. Years have rolled by since last we met, Are cherish'd where they once were shrined. Passions in all their wildness felt, Now with more sober feelings join, Changed only as alloyers melt Pure gold into a lighter coin. When sickening oft at hope deferr'd, No sister's gentle voice was heard, Though this is joy to me unknown, Would flow from lips as loved as thine! THE CHURCH POOR-BOX. ANONYMOUS. FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS." I AM a Poor-Box !-here I stick, With solid pence from those who kneel; The robin on me oft doth hop; While e'en the sun will often stop To shine on me. I am of sterling, close, hard grain But age, my friends, who can sustain, Neglect might make a Saint complain, Heaven hath, no doubt, a large design: Some hearts are harder grain'd than mine; Some men too fat, and some too fine, And some can't spare it ; I do not mean to warp and pine, But humbly bear it. This is a cold and draughty place, I feel the comfort of HIS face, Who pities men. I saw, last week, in portly style, He turn'd his head to cough and smile,- I saw the same rich man, this morn, Pitying the Poor-the weak and worn- I saw, last year, a courtly dame, With splendid bust, and jewels' flame, And all the airs of feather'd game A high-bred star-thing: All saw the gold-but close she came, Two days ago, she pass'd this way, "I am like thee"-I heard her say-- The farmer gives when crops are good, Because the markets warm his blood : The traveller 'scaped from field and flood, Endows the Poor; The dying miser sends his mud, To make Heaven sure. A lover with his hoped-for bride (Her parents being close beside) Drew forth his purse with sleek-faced pride, Rattling my wood : All day I felt a pain in the side, The Captain fresh from sacking towns, My humble claim to pity owns; But, worst of all, Arch-hypocrites display their crowns Beside my wall. There came a little child, one day, Gave me a kiss-and went away With drooping locks. I have to play a thankless part; But those who give with a child's heart, The rest I take, as on the mart; Wise head-still tongue. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. FROM "LUCY HOOPER." FAREWELL! A little time, and we Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee As pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens on eternity. |