THE FINE LADY. HER heart is set on folly, An amber gathering straws: She courts each poor occurrence, Heeds not the heavenly laws. She has a little beauty, Pity her! And she flaunts it in the day, While the selfish wrinkles, spreading, Steal all its charm away. She has a little money, Pity her! And she flings it everywhere: 'Tis a gewgaw on her bosom, A tinsel in her hair. Pity her! She has a little feeling, She spreads a foolish net That snares her own weak footsteps, Not his for whom 'tis set. Pity her! Ye harmless household drudges, And horny palms of labor A softer heart may bear. Pity her! Ye steadfast ones, whose burthens Weigh valorous shoulders down, With hands that cannot idle, And brows that will not frown, Pity her! Ye saints, whose thoughts are folded As graciously to rest As a dove's stainless pinions Upon her guileless breast, Pity her! But most, ye helpful angels That send distress and work, Hot task and sweating forehead, To heal man's idle irk, Pity her! THE DARKENED HOUSE. ONE year ago this dreary night, This house, that in my way Checks the swift pulses of delight, Was cordial glad, and gay. The household angels tended there And by the hardier plant grew fair A lovely lily-flower. The skies rained sunshine on its head, It throve in summer air: "How straight and sound!" the father said; The mother said, "How fair!" One little year is gathering up Its glories to depart; The skies have left one marble drop Within the lily's heart. For growth and bloom no more avails The Seasons' changing breath : Fixed in sad constancy, it feels The sculpture-touch of Death. But from its breast let golden rays, Linking the sorrow-clouded days With dawning paradise. |