THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN.

I.

So goes the world;--if wealthy, you may call THIS friend, THAT brother;--friends and brothers all; Though you are worthless--witless--never mind it: You may have been a stable-boy--what then?

'Tis wealth, good sir, makes HONORABLE MEN.

You seek respect, no doubt, and YOU will find it.

II.

But if you are poor, Heaven help you! though your sire Had royal blood within him, and though you Possess the intellect of angels, too, 'Tis all in vain;--the world will ne'er inquire On such a score:--Why should it take the pains?

'Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.

III.

I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, Witty and wise:--he paid a man a visit, And no one noticed him, and no one ever Gave him a welcome. "Strange!" cried I, "whence is it?"

He walked on this side, then on that, He tried to introduce a social chat; Now here, now there, in vain he tried; Some formally and freezingly replied, And some Said by their silence--"Better stay at home."

IV.

A rich man burst the door; As Croesus rich, I'm sure He could not pride himself upon his wit, And as for wisdom, he had none of it; He had what's better; he had wealth.

What a confusion!--all stand up erect-- These crowd around to ask him of his health; These bow in HONEST duty and respect; And these arrange a sofa or a chair, And these conduct him there.

"Allow me, sir, the honor;"--Then a bow Down to the earth--Is't possible to show Meet grat.i.tude for such kind condescension?

V.

The poor man hung his head, And to himself he said, "This is indeed beyond my comprehension;"

Then looking round, One friendly face he found, And said, "Pray tell me why is wealth preferred To wisdom?"--"That's a silly question, friend!"

Replied the other--"have you never heard, A man may lend his store Of gold or silver ore, But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"

KHEMNITZER.

THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES.

I.

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night-- The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue.

The moon looks down on old Cro'nest; She mellows the shades on his craggy breast; And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the waves below.

His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut-bough and the cedar made, And through their cl.u.s.tering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark, Like starry twinkles that momently peak Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.

II.

The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid.

And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did, And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, Till the morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.

III.

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell;-- The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; He has counted them all with click and stroke Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak; And he has awakened the sentry Elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the Fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell-- 'Twas made of the white snail's pearly sh.e.l.l.

"Midnight comes, and all is well!

Hither, hither wing your way!

'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day!"

IV.

They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullein's velvet screen, Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swing in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-- They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering rising-stars inlaid; And some had opened the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade.

And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above--below--on every side, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.

V.

They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the b.u.t.tercup;-- A scene of sorrow waits them now.

For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eyes of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the Lily-King's behest,-- For this the shadowy tribes of air To the Elfin Court must haste away!-- And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay.

VI.

The throne was reared upon the gra.s.s, Of spice-wood and of sa.s.safras; On pillars of mottled tortoise-sh.e.l.l Hung the burnished canopy, And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell Of the tulip's crimson drapery.

The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, On his brow the crown imperial shone, The prisoner Fay was at his feet, And his Peers were ranged around the throne.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

THE SONG OF THE RAIN.

Lo! the long, slender spears, bow they quiver and flash Where the clouds send their cavalry down!

Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash Over mountain and river and town: Thick the battle-drops fall--but they drip not in blood; The trophy of war is the green fresh bud: Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

II.

The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare, The wells they yawn empty and dry; But a rushing of waters is heard in the air, And a rainbow leaps out in the sky.

Hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves, How they wash tha wide pavement, and sweep from the eaves!

Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

III.

See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane, The kind drops dance in on the floor; And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain On the step by her half-open door; At the tune on the skylight, far over his head, Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed.

Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

IV.

And away, far from men, where high mountains tower, The little green mosses rejoice, And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower, And the hill-torrents lift up their voice: And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light; Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

V.

And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain, A single thrush pipes full and sweet, How days of clear shining will come after rain, Waving meadows, and thick growing wheat; So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears, Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears: Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

SPECTATOR.

HEARTY READING.

1. Curiosity is a pa.s.sion very favorable to the love of study, and a pa.s.sion very susceptible of increase by cultivation. Sound travels so many feet in a second; and light travels so many feet in a second. Nothing more probable: but you do not care how light and sound travel. Very likely: but make yourself care; get up, shake yourself well, pretend to care, make believe to care, and very soon you will care, and care so much that you will sit for hours thinking about light and sound, and be extremely angry with any one who interrupts you in your pursuits; and tolerate no other conversation but about light and sound; and catch yourself plaguing everybody to death who approaches you, with the discussion of these subjects.