Elizabeth b. Whittier.

1815-1864.

CHARITY.

The pilgrim and stranger, who, through the day, Holds over the desert his trackless way,

Where the terrible sands no shade have known, No sound of life save his camel's moan,

Hears, at last, through the mercy of Allah to all, From his tent-door, at evening, the Bedouin's call: "Whoever thou art, whose need is great,

In the name of God, the Compassionate
And Merciful One, for thee I wait!"

For gifts, in His name, of food and rest,
The tents of Islam of God are blest.
Thou, who hast faith in the Christ above,
Shall the Koran teach thee the Law of Love?
O Christian open thy heart and door,-
Cry, east and west, to the wandering poor,---
"Whoever thou art, whose need is great,
In the name of Christ, the Compassionate
And Merciful One, for thee I wait!"

THE MEETING WATERS.

Close beside the meeting waters,
Long I stood as in a dream,
Watching how the little river
Fell into the broader stream.

Calm and still the mingled current
Glided to the waiting sea;
On its breast serenely pictured
Floating cloud and skirting tree.

And I thought: "O human spirit!
Strong and deep and pure and blest,
Let the stream of my existence

Blend with thine, and find its rest!"

I could die as dies the river,
In that current deep and wide;
I would live as lives its waters,
Flashing from a stronger tide!

Unknown.

HEARTS THAT HUNGER.

Some hearts go hungering through the world,
And never find the love they seek ;
Some lips with pride or scorn are curled,
To hide the pain they may not speak;
The eye may flash, the mouth may smile,
The voice in gladdest music thrill,

And yet beneath them all the while,
The hungry heart be pining still.

O eager eyes which gaze afar!

O arms which clasp the empty air,

Not all unmarked your sorrows are,
Not all unpitied your despair.
Smile, patient lips, so proudly dumb;
When life's frail tent at last is furled,
Your glorious recompense shall come,
O hearts that hunger through the world.

John G. Sare.

1816-1887.

THE TWO ANGELS.

AN ALLEGORY.

Two wandering angels, Sleep and Death.
Once met in sunny weather;

And while the twain were taking breath,
They held discourse together.

Quoth Sleep (whose face, though twice as fair,
Was strangely like the other's,-

So like, in sooth, that anywhere

They might have passed for brothers):

"A busy life is mine, I trow;
Would I were omnipresent!
So fast and far have I to go;
And yet my work is pleasant.

"I cast my potent poppies forth,

And lo,-the cares that cumber

The toiling, suffering sons of earth
Are drowned in sweetest slumber.

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The student rests his weary brain,
And waits the fresher morrow;

I ease the patient of his pain,
The mourner of his sorrow.

"I bar the gates where cares abide,
And open Pleasure's portals
To visioned joys; thus, far and wide,
I earn the praise of mortals.”

“Alas!” replied the other, “mine
Is not a task so grateful;
Howe'er to mercy I incline,

To mortals I am hateful.

"They call me 'Kill-joy,' every one,

And speak in sharp detraction

Of all I do ; yet have I done

Full many a kindly action.”

"True!" answered Sleep, “but all the while

Thine office is berated,

'T is only by the weak and vile

That thou art feared and hated.

"And though thy work on earth has given To all a shade of sadness;

Consider-every saint in heaven
Remembers thee with gladness!"

William E. Channing.

1818.

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral stoops,
No winding torches paint the midnight air;
Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops,
Along the modest pathways, and those fair
Pale asters of the season spread their plumes
Around this field, fit garden for our tombs.

And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell
Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place,
Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,
But in its kind and supplicating grace,
It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more
Friend to the friendless than thou wast before;

Learn from the loved one's rest serenity;

To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound, And thou repose beneath the whispering tree, One tribute more to this submissive ground; Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride, Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride :

Rather to those ascents of being turn,

When a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn

Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.