THE DEWDROP.

A dewdrop, falling on the ocean wave, Exclaimed, in fear, "I perish in this grave!"

But, in a sh.e.l.l received, that drop of dew Unto a pearl of marvelous beauty grew; And, happy now, the grace did magnify Which thrust it forth--as it had feared--to die; Until again, "I perish quite!" it said Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed: O, unbelieving!--So it came to gleam Chief jewel in a monarch's diadem.

RICHARD C. TRENCH.

VIRTUE.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright-- The bridal of the earth and sky; The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turns to coal, Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands,-- This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear G.o.d, Prove t.i.tle to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE FISHERMAN.

A perilous life, and sad as life may be, Hath the lone fisher, on the lonely sea, O'er the wild waters laboring far from home, For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam: Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life, And none to aid him in the stormy strife: Companion of the sea and silent air, The lonely fisher thus must ever fare: Without the comfort, hope,--with scarce a friend, He looks through life and only sees its end!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

[Ill.u.s.tration]

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His hors.e.m.e.n hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief--I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry: So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When, Oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal sh.o.r.e, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--oh my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the sh.o.r.e, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.