the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh | Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel forth. Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces it now, For the pressure on her heart, and the weight upon her brow; But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare, That she might look around her, and see if he were there. And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spearwound in his side, every way, She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands gloom,spread wide. There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that in the room; he had known And children with grave faces are whispering one Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow, her own. another - ay, equal to POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with me?" The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn : And she folded both her thin white hands and turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord!" The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, "It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin; Men said, "It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?" And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see How much of happiness there was after that misery. ANONYMOUS. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. "Drowned! drowned!"- HAMLET. ONE more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Make no deep scrutiny Still, for all slips of hers, - Wipe those poor lips of hers, Loop up her tresses Who was her father? O, it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed, Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; In she plunged boldly,- Dissolute man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can! Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs, frigidly, Perishing gloomily, Cross her hands humbly, Owning her weakness, How strange it should be that this beautiful snow | Should fall on a sinner with newhere to go! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man; He's only a pauper whom nobody owns! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din ! The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns! Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach He's only a pauper whom nobody owns! You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns! THOMAS NOEL. FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. Is there for honest poverty Wha hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by; We dare be poor for a' that. For a' that and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; What though on hamely fare we dine, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, - For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, A beauty fading like the April flowers, A treasury which bankrupt time devours, A swelling thought of holding sea and land, WILLIAM DRUMMOND. THE DIRGE. WHAT is the existence of man's life It is a storm where the hot blood And each loud passion of the mind It is a flower which buds and grows It is a dream whose seeming truth It is a dial which points out |