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It is cold, dark midnight; yet listen

To that patter of tiny feet!
Is it one of your dogs, fair lady,

Who whines in the bleak cold street ? Is it one of your silken spaniels

Shut out in the snow and the sleet?

My dogs sleep warm in their baskets,

Safe from the darkness and snow; All the beasts in our Christian England

Find pity wherever they go. (Those are only the homeless children

Who are wandering to and fro.)

Look out in the gusty darkness,

I have seen it again and again, That shadow, that flits so slowly

Up and down past the window pane : It is surely some criminal lurking

Out there in the frozen rain.

Nay; our criminals are all sheltered ;

They are pitied and taught and fed : That is only a sister-woman

Who has got neither food nor bed : And the night cries, “ Sin to be living !”

And the river cries, “Sin to be dead!' Look out at that farthest corner,

Where the wall stands blank and bare : Can that be a pack which a peddler

Has left and forgotten there? His goods, lying out unsheltered,

Will be spoilt by the damp night-air.

Nay; goods in our thrifty England

Are not left to lie and grow rotten;
For each man knows the market value

Of silk or woollen or cotton.
But, in counting the riches of England,

I think our poor are forgotten.

Our beasts and our thieves and our chattels

Have weight for good or for ill ; But the poor are only His image,

His presence, his word, his will : And so Lazarus lies at our doorstep, And Dives neglects him still.

A. A. Procter.


Hush! I can not bear to see thee

Stretch thy tiny hands in vain : I have got no bread to give thee;

Nothing, child, to ease thy pain.

When God sent thee first to bless me,

Proud, and thankful too, was I: Now, my darling, I, thy mother, Almost long to see thee die.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary:

God is good, but earth is dreary. I have watched thy beauty fading,

And thy strength sink day by day : Soon, I know, will Want and Fever

Take thy little life away.
Famine makes thy father reckless;

Hope has left both him and me:
We would suffer all, my baby,
Had we but a crust for thee.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary :

God is good, but life is dreary. Better thou shouldst perish early,

Starve so soon, my darling one, Than to live to want and struggle

Vainly still, as I have done. Better that thy angel spirit

With my joy, my peace, were flown, Than thy heart grow cold and careless, Reckless, hopeless, like my own.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary :
God is good, but life is dreary.

I am wasted, dear, with hunger,

And my brain is all oppressed;
I have scarcely strength to press thee,

Wan and feeble, to my breast.
Patience, baby, God will help us,-

Death will come to thee and me;
He will take us to his heaven,
Where no want and pain can be.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary :
God is good, but life is dreary.

Such the plaint that, late and early,

Did we listen, we might hear
Close beside us; but the thunder

Of a city dulls our ear.
Every heart, like God's bright angel,

Can bid one such sorrow cease :
God has glory when his children
Bring his poor ones joy and peace.

Listen! Nearer, while she sings,
Sounds the fluttering of wings !

A. A. Procter.


The famous Duke of Brunswick, he surely must be blessed With the richest hoard of diamonds that ever man possessed; So rich and rare, so bright and fair, were never known before: I almost feel it wealth enough to tell of such a store.

There's one of curious history, traced back to a Turkish saber; Another, supposed invaluable, belonged to the Emperor

Baber; And a solitaire of twelve rich gems, whose chronicles reveal That they buttoned the vest of Pedro, the Emperor of Brazil. There's one of surpassing luster, but of a blackish dye, That served for many centuries as an Indian idol's eye. There's one that blazed on a German throne, and one of the

purest sheen That on the lily finger shone of Mary, the Scottish queen. Diamonds bright as the starry spheres, and diamonds dark

as the jet; And two that have dangled at the ears of Maria Antoinette. In short, the rarest collection of ancient or modern time; But to give the merest catalogue is beyond the province of

rhyme. You must see the duke's own volume for their histories, luster,

and rate, Which he gives in an octavo, pages two hundred and sixty


Now, surely the duke is the happiest man that lives this side

of the grave.

Alas! he is chained by his diamonds; he is body and soul

their slave!

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