THE CITY CHILD'S COMPLAINT.
Ho! ye upon whose fevered cheeks
The hectic glow is bright,
Whose mental toil wears out the day
And half the weary night,
Who labour for the souls of men,
Champions of truth and right—
Although ye feel your toil is hard,
Even with this glorious view,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho! all who labour-all who strive-
Ye wield a lofty power:
Do with your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour!
The glorious privilege to do
Is man's most noble dower.
Oh! to your birthright and yourselves,
To your own souls be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs
Who have no work to do.
THE CITY CHILD'S COMPLAINT. *
"THE trees and the flowers are beautiful,
The sky is blue and high,
And the small streams make pleasant sounds
As they run swiftly by.
"But all these things are not for me,
I live amid dark walls;
And scarcely through these dusty panes
A single sunbeam falls.
From an interesting and valuable little work, entitled "Poems for my Children."
"I never hear the wild bird's song, Or see the graceful deer
Go trooping through the forest glades: What can I learn from here?
"They say God's works are wonderful,
In sea, and sky, and land;
I never see them, for men's works
Are here on every hand."
Oh murmur not, thou little one,
That here thy home must be,
And not amid the pleasant fields,
Or by the greenwood tree.
There is a voice can speak to thee,
Amid the works of men;
Speak, with a sound as loud and clear,
As in the lonely glen.
Do not the works thou seest around,
Spring from man's thoughtful mind,
And in that, is there nought of God,
For thee, for all, to find?
The earth, with all its varied blooms,
Will have to pass away;
But man's immortal mind will live
Through everlasting day.
And without mind these sheltering walls
Around thee had not been,
These busy engines had not moved,
Nor whirling wheels been seen!
THE LITTLE TEACHER.
WITH dark foreboding thoughts opprest,
I wandered forth one summer day,
Hoping abroad to ease my breast,
And grief allay.
LET NOT THE SUN GO DOWN UPON YOUR WRATH. 315
Deep in a lone and green retreat,
I laid me down with many a sigh,
When, lo! a daisy at my feet,
Allured my eye.
Methought with sympathetic smile
It seemed to pity and reprove,
And thus my bitter care beguile
With words of love :-
"Sad mortal, cease these anxious sighs;
Why sit you thus in sorrow here?
Does not each leaf that meets thine eyes
Reprove thy fear?
Although a mean unheeded flower,
My daily wants are all supplied;
And He who brought me to this hour
Will still provide.
"The light and dew, the sun and rain,`
Are hourly sent to foster me,
And fearest thou God will not deign
To think on thee?"
Ashamed I rose, rebuked my care,
And blessed the teacher of the sod,
Resolved to chase away despair,
And trust in God.*
LET NOT THE SUN GO DOWN UPON YOUR WRATH.
SEE behind the crimson west,
Brightly sinks the sun to rest ;
Gently close the drooping flowers,
Softly fall the vesper hours;
Hushed is every woodland note,
Bee's loud hum, and linnet's throat;
*From a useful little work recently published by this pleasing author.
Silent is the liquid breeze,
Moonbeams kiss the rustling trees.
Ere the loving stars arise,
Ere soft slumber seals your eyes,
Children, bid contentions cease,
Let the sun go down in peace.
Join not hymns of praise to learn,
While your hearts with anger
burn:
Kneel not to your evening prayer,
With resentment lurking there.
God, who bids you dwell in love-
God, who sees you from above-
He is grieved your pride to see,
Every time you disagree.
Ere the silver stars arise,
Ere soft slumber seals your eyes,
Children, bid your quarrels cease,
Let the sun go down in peace.
THE UNREGARDED TOILS OF THE POOR.
ALAS! what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed;
What loving hearts are sundered
And yet man takes no heed!
He goeth in his daily course,
Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine,
That turn for him the mazy wheel,
That delve for him the mine!
THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DROPS.
And pitieth not the children small
In noisy factories dim,
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him!
To him they are but as the stones
Beneath his feet that lie :
It entereth not his thoughts that they
From him claim sympathy:
It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferer's groan,
That in His righteous eye, their life
Is precious as his own.
THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DROPS.
"Он father, dear father, why pass they away,
The dew-drops that sparkled at dawning of day-
That glittered like stars by the light of the moon,
Oh, why are those dew-drops dissolving so soon?
Does the sun, in his wrath, chase their brightness away,
As though nothing that's lovely might live for a day?
The moonlight has faded-the flowers still remain,
But the dew has dried out of their petals again."
"My child," said the father, “look up to the skies,
Behold yon bright rainbow, those beautiful dyes;
There-there are the dew-drops in glory reset,
'Mid the jewels of heaven they are glittering yet.
Then are we not taught by each beautiful ray,
To mourn not for beauty though fleeting away,
For though youth of its brightness and beauty be riven,
All that withers on earth blooms more brightly in heaven."
Alas! for the father-how little knew he,
The words he had spoken prophetic could be;
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