God be with thee, little Alice!
Of His bounteousness, may He
Fill the chalice, build the palace,
Here―unto eternity!
AN Irish beggar, in the crowded street,
Led her young troop with bare and blistered feet;
Her glossy face full broad and plump was seen,
Where much content and little care had been.
As quick to laugh, as quick to shed the tear-
Both for her purposes lay ever near.
A ready curtsy, too, she always had,
And supple words to fit her history sad.
A web of famine, fever, misery,
To every temper of coy charity.
-A little, little room-and only one
In a close alley, prisoned from the sun.
There, see, the tucked-up apron yields the scraps
That well requite the beggar's small mishaps.
Fast as the greasy remnants come to sight,
The babes devour them with a huge delight.
Whilst, like a wayside blossom, sweet and fair,
Born in a ditch, and left to perish there,
One stands apart, the beggar's eldest child-
Fair amid foulness, in the slough unsoiled;
A loving creature, modest, kind, and good-
Ah, dreary dawning of her womanhood!
Great Spirit! Comforter! thou dost not brood
Only in peaceful, lonely solitude.
The trader's haunt of traffic oft is blest
With Thy soft presence, life-redeeming guest!
And Thou hast visited where Simon waits,
From year to year, at Mammon's golden gates.
Simon, a man to whom is vanity
All minstrel sounds, all poet imagery,
All forms ideal that glorify life's way;
Trade, the great king, rules him with iron sway.
In gloomy warehouse ever he is penned,
Yet-yet o'er Simon's heart the Dove's white pinions bend.
It was to Simon that the beggar dame
With all her arts and with her daughter came.
Low Irish eloquence! it is a mine
Where false and true wear all one glistening shine.
Emotions, good and bad wear one bright dress
Of flattering words and sparkling images.
This Simon knows; but it is Bridget's plan
To let the right be foremost-where she can;
With differing humours different means she tries,
And where the truth will do, refrains from lies.
Now having something truly good to reach,
She comes resolved against a moral breach.
"Good-mornin', sir; I jist made bold to call-
All blessed luck, sir, on your tradings fall!
O the good saints! what throuble puts one to-
But O be praised! there's charity in you;
I've found it often-sure the stones might teli
In all the land your fellow does not dwell.
Sure 'tis your goodness makes me bould to bring
My girl, my Martha, sir." Then whispering
And wheedling-" Oh, bad luck, sir, wid that fruit ;
It failed"-that was her begging notes to suit.
"But you are busy"-quick she turned away—
"I'll call again, sir.” "No, no, Bridget-stay."
Martha hangs back with shy and timorous look,
While pen in either ear turns Simon from his book.
Checking the long preamble of her story,
And her glozed speech set forth in all its glory,
Said Simon:
I
you want, see, in short,
For Martha here a life of good report,
By my assistance?" Bridget curtsied low-
"God's help! the best of everything you know."
"But she'll want character and decent clothes:
Good service, Bridget, always looks for those."
Bridget was wise, again she curtsied low
"God's help! the best of everything you know.
I've often thought, though I'm a beggar, sir,
Her Maker meant a better life for her."
Now hope first shone upon the young girl's view,
When Simon gently said, "I think so too."
The mother's soul was full of sunny light-
Troth, sir, I've tried to keep her in the right; Never she stole, sir-never told a lie,
By night and day I've kept her carefully.
I am her faithful mother, and no less-
Her father is the Father of the fatherless."
Now in his own good soul this deeply touched
The pious Simon. Wondering he had watched
This mother's love-so much above her mind,
So warm and wise, so wary and refined:
And as he looked upon the girl's meek face,
He saw the hand of God, and praised His grace.
Refinement sweet and tranquil pleasures be
In households ordered well in piety.
The soft morn light awakes to prayer, and all
The favoured inmates at one altar fall.
Then work, divided with a sober care,
They cheerful take-each the allotted share.
And often aspirations through the day
Rise to keep indolence and harm away.
In such a home the beggar's daughter dwelt;
With Simon's friends she morn and even knelt;
In tranquil industry she passed her time,
And truth and knowledge beautified her prime.
Then viewed she all the abysses horrible-
Vice, infamy, the deeps of death and hell—
From which the trader had been her defence;
Wherefore she blessed him and high Providence.
Simon's rich ledgers many debtors show,
But not a page reveals what she doth owe;
That reckoning Martha keepeth close and sure,
Deep in her heart, where it shall aye endure.
And he shall find that reckoning better worth
Than the best balances he boasts on earth.
Brothers and sisters soon claim Martha's aid.
Schooling she finds, or service, or a trade,
With Simon's help; but nothing can reclaim
From her wild habits the poor Irish dame.
The bread of work is sweet, who will may say—
Bitter to Bridget-it is spurned away.
Martha is grieved, and gently doth reprove,
But mindeth well her erring mother's love—
Love gracing still that rugged heart—as free,
As bright, as fresh, as beautiful to see
As the green moss upon the wintry tree.
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