Her white arms were veiled with laces rare, Whilst hers with jewels are e'en weighed down,- While of hunger I die, in tears I drown, Here in the sobbing rain. Aye, his bride is she, and what then am I, I loved, alas, in vain! And yet, though no saintly prayer was said, See the lightning flash in yonder sky, My feet are so weary, my feet are so sore, Would they bear me, I wonder, as far as the moor? What darkness is this which veileth 'mine eyes? There! strange lights are gleaming from yon open door, And strange voices call me-I ne'er heard before.- NOT LOST. The look of sympathy, the gentle word, The sacred music of a tender strain, Wrung from a poet's heart by grief and pain, The silent tears that fall at dead of night, The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth, The kindly plans devised for others' good, Not lost, O Lord, for in thy city bright, 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, 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; The rich man's son inherits wants: What does the poor man's son inherit? 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? 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 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 rieh to hold in fee. O poor man's son, scorn not thy state! Work only makes the soul to shine, Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 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,— 66 '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,- Pretty soon he "George Francis Train is kicking up a good deal of a row Do you think they will put him in a basover England. tile?" "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. back and said, He walked off, but at last came "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'; I ain't had no father nor mother A-tellin' me wrong from the right; 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, And they says as they hopes I'll get better; I've stood in them streets precious often, I've looked in them shops, with the winders And I've heerd gents a-larfin' and talkin', But it's kind on you, sir, to sit by me; I hopes as you'll come when it's over, You'll tell them as how I died happy, That I'm gone to that land where the weary Now open that book as you give me, I feels as it never tells lies, And read me them words-you know, guv'nor,- There, give me your hand, sir, and thankee |