Rich And Poor

Old Aleck, the weaver, sat in the nook Of his chimney, reading an ancient book, Old, and yellow, and sadly worn, With covers faded, and soiled, and torn;-- And the tallow candle would flicker and flare As the wind, which tumbled the old man's hair, Swept drearily in through a broken pane, Damp and chilling with sleet and rain.

Yet still, unheeding the changeful light, Old Aleck read on and on that night; Sometimes lifting his eyes, as he read, To the cob-webb'd rafters overhead;-- But at length he laid the book away, And knelt by his broken stool to pray; And something, I fancied, the old man said About "treasures in Heaven" of which he'd read.

A wealthy merchant over the way Sat in his lamp-light's steady ray, Where many a volume richly bound And heavily gilded was lying round. One, with glittering clasps was there, Embossed, and pictured, and wondrous fair; But the printed words were the very same As those I read by the flickering flame That gave me light as I stooped to look Into the old man's tattered book, And I knew by the page's spotless white, No hand had opened it yet to the light.

"Treasures In Heaven"!--what, rich man, heir To countless thousands, your thoughts are--where? With these he read of?--No; ah, no!-- Over the storm-vexed waters they go, Where stout ships buffet the blast to-night, With never a glimmering star in sight!

Day fretted the east with its stormy gold, But the turbulent ocean raged and rolled, And dashed on many a rock girt shore The wrecks of ships that would sail no more,-- Lifting, at times, to the topmost wave Ghastly faces no hand could save,-- And then, far down with his treasures vain, Burying each in the depths again.

And the merchant looked from his mansion fair, Over the ocean, with troubled air; And thought of his treasures, in one short night Whelmed in the deep by the tempest's might;-- Ah,--I knew by that pale brow's deepening gloom, That he owned no treasure beyond the tomb.

Day fretted the east with its stormy gold, Creeping slow through a casement old, And stealing sadly with faint, cold ray Into the hut where the old man lay. White and still was the scattered hair, And the hands were crossed with a reverent air;-- Calm and stirless the eyelids lay, Pale as marble and cold as clay, But the lips were tenderly wreathed, the while, With the beautiful light of a saintly smile; And I knew he had passed from that desolate room To a fadeless treasure beyond the tomb.

PALMER.

THREE YEARS OLD.

A light departed from the hearth of home, Leaving a shadow where its radiance shone,-- A flower just bursting into life and bloom, Lopped from its stem, the bower left sad and lone,-- A golden link dropped from love's precious chain,-- Gem from affection's sacred casket riven,-- Of music's richest tones a missing strain,-- A bird-note hushed in the blue summer heaven!

That light is gathered to its Source again, Though long its radiance will be missed on earth, That flower, transplanted to a sunnier plain, Bloometh immortal where no blight has birth; That missing link gleams in Love's chain above,-- That lost gem sparkles on the Saviour's breast,-- That music-uttrance, tuned to holier love, Swells richly 'mid the anthems of the blest. Thank God! there's nothing lost! A little while, And what ye miss will be your own again E'en the dear clay once more will on you smile With life immortal throbbing in each vein Tis well to leave your treasure with the Lord-- With One so tender your beloved to see,-- Back to the Source of life a life restored-- Then where your treasure is let your affections be!