THE BEGGAR. ITY the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, "Pity the sorrows of a poor old man." Yon house, erected on the rising ground, (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Here craving for a morsel of their bread, A pampered menial forced me from the door, To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. O, take me to your hospitable home, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor and miserably old. Should I reveal the source of every grief, If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed. Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; My daughter, once the comfort of my age! Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, THE VOICE OF THE POOR. [In the Irish Famine of '47.] AS ever sorrow like to our sorrow, Will our night never change into a morrow A deadly gloom is on us, waking sleeping, Before us die our brothers of starvation; Around us cries of famine and despair; Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvationWhere, O where? If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, At the litanies of human groans ascending But who bends one kind glance to illumine The air around is ringing with their laughter- We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, Nor the proud heart of youth, free and A deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness Till the God-like soul within Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin. We must toil though the light of life is burning, Oh, how dim! We must toil on our sick-bed, feebly turning Our eyes to Him Who alone cau hear the pale lip faintly saying, With scarce-moved breath, While the paler hands uplifted are, and praying, "Lord, grant us death!" LADY WILDE (Speranza). UNDER THE DAISIES. HAVE just been learning the lesson of life, And all of its power for pleasure and pain And all that is left of the bright, bright dream, Is a handful of dust in a coffin hid A coffin under the daisies; The beautiful, beautiful daisies, And thus forever throughout the world But better far than two hearts estranged And so I am glad that we lived as we did, So I bless my God, with a breaking heart, HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD. T EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger; "The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me, Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, "Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace,-where no perils can chase me? "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood? "Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields.- sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion. Erin mavournin,- Erin go bragh'"' THOMAS CAMPBELL. OF "He giveth his beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxvi. 2. F all the thoughts of God that are What would we give to our beloved? What do we give to our beloved? A little dust to overweep, The whole earth blasted for our sake, "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when "He giveth his beloved sleep." O earth, so full of dreary noise! O men, with wailing in your voice! His dews drop mutely on the hill. For me, my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, ELIZABETII BARRETT BROWNING. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. ITH fingers weary and worn. With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Shirt! " "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work! THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE CONQUERED BANNER. URL that banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there 's not a man to wave it, Take that banner down, 'tis tattered! Hard to think there's none to hold it; Furl that banner-furl it sadly- Swore it should forever wave- Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; For though conquered, they adore it! Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently — it is holy. For it droops above the dead. Touch it not unfold it never Let it droop there furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead! ABRAM T. RYAN. IF. F. sitting with this little worn-out shoe And scarlet stocking lying on my knee, I knew the little feet had pattered through I could be reconciled and happy too, If in the morning, when the song of birds I listen for his pretty, broken words. And for the music of his dimpled feet, I could be glad if, when the day is done, And all its cares and heartaches laid away, I could look westward to the hidden sun. And, with a heart full of sweet yearnings, say— "To-night I'm nearer to my little one By just the travel of a single day." If I could know those little feet were shod If he were dead, I would not sit to-day I would be patient, knowing `t was God's way, MAY RILEY SMITH. S the tree is fertilized by its own broken branches and fallen leaves, and grows out of its own decay, so is the soul of man ripened out of broken hopes and blighted affections. |