THE POOR MAN'S HYMN.

WHY, for a hoard of gold, should I

Like yonder squallid miser fare;

Or for the purple vestments sigh,

That sting the monarch's soul with care?

Can the mean pittance of their gems,

Their stately ships that ride the sea,

Their sceptres, or their diadems,

My food, my raiment, and my hearth;

Where, with the chosen of my soul,

I proudly rise above the earth!

There are my riches, - in the vales.

The hill-sides too are gemmed with gold;

And whispering angels on the gales,

Bring all that's needful to my fold.

Are gifts I need not thirst to win,

And won, are worthier than a throne!

The miser is a drudge,

a slave,

Who never can his task fulfil!

He nobly free, who does not crave
To weave a living web of ill!

Not while the azure sky is bright,
And sparkling whither may I turn,
While all the earth is robed in light
From rays that heaven-reflected burn;
Not while these flowers perpetual spring
Beneath the dew-drop and the sun,

Would I exchange with haughtiest king,
Or ask the crown that crime has won!

Nay! for enough, is all I care
To delve or sorrow as I go;
And I would always hope to share

That little with the loved below.

Kings to the dust their heads must bow,

When life ebbs out, 'mid grief and pain,

I tear no jewels from my brow,

Nor weep to meet mine own again!

C. D. STUART.

SHADOWS OF MEMORY.

I SHUT my eyes, when I would summon all

From Memory's hall;

The friends I've lost with time, - and each event

Of life misspent ;

I summon all before me with shut eyes,
And inward sight that outward gaze defies.

The images of Memory, -are they bright
In this strange light?

Or do they cast around my mental room
A shadowy gloom?

Or do, by fits, the faces of the dead

A sunshine o'er my lonely musing shed?

Not all in gloom,—not all in colors dim
Their shadows swim

Beside me,

but with loveliness that looks

Like stars on brooks,

As though they warmed the waters cool and bright,

By the pure fervency of their pale light?

Faces arise before me,

- never more

On earth's sad shore

To beam with life; and yet I see them near,
And feel no fear:

I look upon them, and within their eyes
Behold such tenderness as never dies!

Yet death is there! And sudden falls a gloom,

As o'er a tomb

The cypress droops, and drooping, drops cold dew!

And then, anew,

The spirit sinks within me, and the day

Declines beneath the night's coming clouds of grey!

And thus, by turns, are shadows fair and dark,
From Memory's ark,