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THE WIDOW'S MITE.

SHE dropped her mite into the treasury

Of that rich temple, where the many thronged,
To stand beneath its sacred arches vast,

To wear humility without, and pride within,
And move 'mid columns massive, grand and tall.
Not so with her her very heart bowed down
With meekness low, as bends the lily's cup
When balmy gales of spring sweep through the vale,
The proud and haughty lavished forth their gold,
Till heaps were high of rich men's yellow ore,
And purse-proud worldlings made their open show
Of largest charity. Half hid, she stole

To 'scape observing eyes and drop her mite
In coffers rich, for heaven set apart;

A blush stole o'er her cheek: the gift was small,
So poor an offering for so great a cause,
'Mid so much wealth,-'twas less than naught!
A drop in ocean's waves-in ocean's sands
A grain. She faltered as it fell. A tear

May be a prayer more deep than lore of words,
And that sad sigh which swelled up from her heart,
To think the gift so small was all she had
Was grateful to the ear of gracious God,
As is the morning hymn which swells aloft,
When seraphs shout Hosannas round the sun!-
That mite for her the daily bread might buy,
Or give her orphan babe a better meal;
She thought but this, some may be poorer still—
And as she thought, the white-clad Charity
Before her stood, with sad and pleading eyes,
And outstretched hand, asked alms for heaven's sake.
The widow gave, and gave with it her all!
Ere to the coffer's base the coin had dropped,
An angel caught and clasped it to his heart,
And flew with it to heaven and to God!

Before His throne God set that mite, and lo!
It was a Star!-a bright and golden orb,
More rich than gems and virgin ore if massed
To weigh the Andes down!

THE BENEDICTION

OF

SPIRITS.

HARK! a softened spirit strain,—
I hear an airy wild refrain,

As if the Wind-Harp's spirit played To kindred unseen sprites which dwell In the pearl chamber of the ocean shell, A fairy serenade,—

Again those wizard notes I hear,

Steal low and sad upon mine ear,

Like richest perfume from a plant, Which, through the dark and silent night, Comes o'er the senses with delight

Hark! to their phantom chant!

CANTAR.

"Mortal! bright in face and mind,
Unto thee our voices rise,
For in thee are thoughts enshrined
Like the stars that stud the skies.
In the deep, like golden gems
Blazing in the crown of Night,
Or countless flowers on their stems,
With which our Eden is bedight;
Mortal! fair, thou may'st not see
Things within our hidden sphere,
Eutopia's reality,

Which in empyrean realms appear;
Yet for thee shall elfin hands

Smooth thy pillow in thy sleep,

Whilst 'round thy couch our fairy bands
Upon thy slumber watch shall keep;
Forms, unseen, shall strew thy way
With the spring-time's brightest buds,
Like the zephyrs when they play,
Curling up blue water floods,

Fauns with wands the leaves shall part
Of flowers which before thee rise,
To catch the sunshine in each heart,
Which falls upon them from thine eyes!
About thy head shall sunbeams swarm,

As bees which cluster round a blossom,

THE BENEDICTION OF SPIRITS.

131

And gentle joys shall nestle warm
Like downy doves upon thy bosom.
Mortal! fair, we've raised a charm
All thy days of earth to bless;

This spell shall guard thy form from harm
And fill thy heart with happiness;

Nothing eldrick, weird, or dark,

Shall assail thee with its sadness;

But Hope, the dove-like, from life's ark
Brings green each promised bough of gladness."

The chant is o'er

I hear no more

Like Memnon's mystic tone,

Whose music with the morning fled, And left the pilgrim with his bended head In silence, and alone.

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