As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,-- So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

The leper raised not the gold from the dust: "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door; That is no true alms which the hand can hold; He gives nothing but worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty; But he who gives a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite,-- The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms, For a G.o.d goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before."

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

_From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."_

_Opportunity_

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-- There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-- That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this Blunt thing!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and s.n.a.t.c.hed it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

_Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel_

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An Angel writing in a book of gold:-- Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?"--The Vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of G.o.d had blessed, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

_Be True_

Thou must be true thyself, If thou the truth wouldst teach; Thy soul must overflow, if thou Another's soul wouldst reach!

It needs the overflow of heart To give the lips full speech.

Think truly, and thy thoughts Shall the world's famine feed; Speak truly, and each word of thine Shall be a fruitful seed; Live truly, and thy life shall be A great and n.o.ble creed.

HORATIO BONAR.

_The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation_

He that is down needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have G.o.d to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it or much: And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage: Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

JOHN BUNYAN.

_A Turkish Legend_

A certain pasha, dead five thousand years, Once from his harem fled in sudden tears,

And had this sentence on the city's gate Deeply engraven, "Only G.o.d is great."

So these four words above the city's noise Hung like the accents of an angel's voice.

And evermore from the high barbican, Saluted each returning caravan.

Lost is that city's glory. Every gust Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown pasha's dust,

And all is ruin, save one wrinkled gate Whereon is written, "Only G.o.d is great."

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

_Elegy written in a Country Churchyard_

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The c.o.c.k's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their st.u.r.dy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour-- The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their n.o.ble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.