You question the justice which governs man's breast, And say that the search for true friendship is vain ; But remember, this world, though it be not the best, Is the next to the best we shall ever attain.
WHEN upon the bed of languor
Weak and feverish we toss,
Should something like impatient anger
Come the weary mind across,
The only remedy that 's found
To drive away the sin,
Is gentle words to those around,
And holy thoughts within.
Thus, in prison hours full often,
Saints their rugged beds could smooth;
Thus their stern jailer's heart could soften,
And their own sad bosoms soothe.
How did Joseph, dungeon-bound,
Release and honor win?
By gentle words to those around,
And holy thoughts within.
Then, although a prisoner lying
Chained in weariness and pain,
My soul through tedious hours is sighing
For sunshine, and for health again;
Yet in my chamber ne'er be found
A dream of selfish sin,
But gentle words to those around,
And holy thoughts within.
I'm a helpless, crippled child;
Gentle Christians, pity me;
Once in rosy health I smiled,
Blythe and gay as you can be,
And, upon the village green
First in every sport was seen.
Now, alas! I'm weak and low,
Cannot either work or play ;
Tottering on my crutches slow,
Drag along my weary way;
Now no longer dance or sing
Gayly in the merry ring.
Many sleepless nights I live,
Turning on my weary bed:
Softest pillows cannot give
Slumber to my aching head;
Constant anguish makes it fly
From my wakeful, heavy eye.
And when morning beams return,
Still no comfort beams for me;
Still my limbs with fever burn,
Painful shoots my crippled knee,
And another tedious day
Passes slow and sad away.
From my chamber-windows high,
Lifted to my easy-chair,
I the village green can spy
Once I used to follow there,
March, or beat my new-bought drum :
Happy times! no more to come.
There I see my fellows gay
Sporting on the daisied turf,
And, amidst their cheerful play,
Stopped by many a merry laugh;
But the sight I cannot bear,
Leaning in my easy-chair.
Let not then the scoffing eye
Laugh my twisted leg to see;
Gentle Christian, passing by,
Stop awhile, and pity me,
And for you I'll breathe a prayer,
Leaning on my easy-chair.
FROM THE DANISH OF HANS ANDERSEN.
An angel is bearing to heaven the spirit of a girl, and carries with him a rose. The newly cleansed soul asks the meaning of it. The angel answers:
"IN the city we are leaving
There lay a dying boy;
The bud I bear to heaven
It was his only joy.
"His days were long and dreary,
In the dismal, dismal street,
And at night 't was very dreary
To count the passing feet.
"For he lay from morn to midnight
Watching the shadows pass,
And never saw the sunlight,
Nor the pleasant country grass.
"But when his flower opened
He knew the fields were green,
And its falling leaves betokened
That all the flowers had been.
"He saw it ere he slumbered,
He watched it as it grew;
"In Heaven's soil abiding,
These buds shall brighter blow,
And tell us pleasant tiding
Of those that live below.
"How know'st thou this, bright Power?"
Then splendidly he smiled:
"Should I not know my flower?
I was that sickly child!"
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