Who smoothly sank into the tomb with the smile of fraud upon his face,
And the last black deed of his existence was injury without redress;
For deaf is the ear of the dead, and can hear no palliating reasons;
The smiter is not among the living, and Right pleadeth but in vain.
Yet shall the curse of the oppressed be as blight upon the grave of the
unjust;

Yea, bitterly shall that handwriting testify against him at the judgment.
I saw the humble relation that tended the peevishness of wealth,

And ministered with kind hand to the wailings of disease and discontent ; I noted how watchfulness and care were feeding on the marrow of her youth;

How heavy was the yoke of dependence, loaded by petty tyranny;
Yet I heard the frequent suggestion,-it can be but a little longer,
Patience and mute submission shall one day reap a rich reward.
So, tacitly enduring much, waited that humble friend,

Putting off the lover of her youth until the dawn of wealth;

And it came, that day of release, and the freed heart could not sorrow,
For now were the years of promise to yield their golden harvest:
Hope, so long deferred, sickly sparkled in her eye,

The miserable past was forgotten, as she looked for the happier future,
And she checked, as unworthy and ungrateful, the dark, suspicious

thought,

That perchance her right had been the safer, if not left alone with honour: But, alas, the sad knowledge soon came, that her stern task-master's will Hath rewarded her toil with a jibe, her patience with utter destitution !— Shall not the scourge of justice lash that cruel coward,

Who mingled the gall of ingratitude with the bitterness of disappointment
Shall not the hate of men, and vengeance, fiercely pursuing,

Hunt down the wretched being that sinneth in his grave?
He fancied his idol self safe from the wrath of his fellows,

But Hades rose as he came in, to point at him the finger of scorn;

And again must he meet that orphan-maid to answer her, face to face,

And her wrongs shall cling around his neck, to hinder him from rising

with the just:

For his last most solemn act hath linked his name with liar,

And the crime of Ananias is branded on his brow!

A good man commendeth his cause to the one great Patron of innocence, Convinced of justice at the last, and sure of good meanwhile.

He knoweth he hath a Guardian, wise and kind and strong,

And can thank Him for giving, or refusing, the trust or the curse of

riches:

His confidence standeth as a rock; he dreadeth not malice nor caprice,
Nor the whisperings of artful men, nor envious secret influence;
He scorneth servile compromise, and the pliant mouthings of deceit;
He maketh not a show of love, where he cannot concede esteem;
He regardeth ill-got wealth, as the root most fruitful of wretchedness,
So he walketh in strict integrity, leaning on God and his right.

No gain, but by its price; labour, for the poor man's meal,
Ofttimes heart-sickening toil, to win him a morsel for his hunger:
Labour, for the chapman at his trade, a dull unvaried round,
Year after year, unto death; yea, what a weariness is it!
Labour for the pale-faced scribe, drudging at his hated desk,
Who bartereth for needful pittance the untold gold of health;

Labour, with fear, for the merchant, whose hopes are ventured on the

sea;

Labour, with care, for the man of law, responsible in his gains;
Labour, with envy and annoyance, where strangers will thee wealth;
Labour, with indolence and gloom, where wealth falleth from a father;
Labour, unto all, whether aching thews, or aching head, or spirit,—
The curse on the sons of men, in all their states, is labour.
Nevertheless, to the diligent, labour bringeth blessing;
The thought of duty sweeteneth toil, and travail is as pleasure;
And time spent in doing hath a comfort that is not for the idle ;
The hardship is transmuted into joy, by the dear alchemy of Mercy.
Labour is good for a man, bracing up his energies to conquest,
And without it life is dull, the man perceiving himself useless:
For wearily the body groaneth, like a door on rusty hinges,

And the grasp of the mind is weakened, as the talons of a caged vulture.
Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened misery:
Enough hath never caused misery, but often quickened happiness:
Enough is less than thy thought, O pampered creature of society,
And he that hath more than enough, is a thief of the rights his brother.

OF INVENTION.

MAN is proud of his mind, boasting that it giveth him divinity,

Yet with all its powers can it originate nothing:

For the great God into all his works hath largely poured out himself,
Saving one special property, the grand prerogative,-Creation.

To improve and expand is ours, as well as to limit and defeat:

But to create a thought or a thing is hopeless and impossible.
Can a man make matter ?—and yet this would-be go
Thinketh to make mind, and form original idea:

The potter must have his clay, and the mason his quarry,
And mind must drain ideas from every thing around it.
Doth the soil generate herbs, or the torrid air breed flies,

Or the water frame its monads, or the mist its swarming blight ?—
Mediately, through thousand generations, having seeds within themselves,
All things, rare or gross, own one common Father.

Truly spake Wisdom, There is nothing new under the sun :

We only arrange and combine the ancient elements of all things.

Invention is activity of mind, as fire is air in motion.

A sharpening of the spiritual sight, to discern hidden aptitudes;
From the basket and acanthus, is modelled the graceful capital:

The shadowed profile on the wall helpeth the limner to his likeness:
The footmarks stamped in clay, lead on the thoughts to printing;

The strange skin garments cast upon the shore suggest another hemisphere: (23)

A falling apple taught the sage pervading gravitation ;

The Huron is certain of his prey, from tracks upon the grass;

And shrewdness, guessing on the hint, followeth on the trail ;

But the hint must be given, the trail must be there, or the keenest sight is as blindness.

Behold the barren reef, which an earthquake hath just left dry;

It hath no beauty to boast of, no harvest of fair fruits:

But soon the lichen fixeth there, and, dying, diggeth its own grave, (*4) And softening suns and splitting frosts crumble the reluctant surface; And cormorants roost there, and the snail addeth its slime,

And efts, with muddy feet, bring their welcome tribute;

And the sea casteth out her dead, wrapped in a shroud of weeds;
And orderly nature arrangeth again the disunited atoms :
Anon, the cold smooth stone is warm with feathery grass,
And the light sporules of the fern are dropt by the passing wind.
The wood-pigeon, on swift wing, leaveth its crop-full of grain;
The squirrel's jealous care planteth the fir-cone and the filbert;
Years pass, and the sterile rock is rank with tangled herbage;
The wild vine clingeth to the brier, and ivy runneth green among the corn
Lordly beeches are studded on the down, and willows crowd around the

rivulet;

And the tall pine and hazel thicket shade the rambling hunter.

Shall the rock boast of its fertility? shall it lift the head in pride ?—
Shall the mind of man be vain of the harvest of its thoughts?
The savage is that rock: and a million chances from without,
By little and little acting on the mind, heap up the hotbed of society;
And the soul, fed and fattened on the thoughts and things around it,
Groweth to perfection, full of fruit, the fruit of foreign seeds.
For we learn upon a hint, we find upon a clue,

We yield an hundred-fold; but the great sower is Analogy.
There must be an acrid sloe before a luscious peach,

A boll of rotting flax before the bridal veil,

An egg before an eagle, a thought before a thing,

A spark struck into tinder, to light the lamp of knowledge,

A slight suggestive nod to guide the watching mind,

A half-seen hand upon the wall, pointing to the balance of Comparison.

By culture man may do all things, short of the miracle,-Creation :

Here is the limit of thy power,-here let thy pride be stayed:

The soil may be rich, and the mind may be active, but neither yield unsown; The eye cannot make light, nor the mind make spirit:

Therefore it is wise in man to name all novelty invention:

For it is to find out things that are, not to create the unexisting:
It is to cling to contiguities, to be keen in catching likeness,
And with energetic elasticity to leap the gulfs of contrast.
The globe kneweth not increase, either of matter or spirit;
Atoms and thoughts are used again, mixing in varied combinations ;
And though, by moulding them anew, thou makest them thine own,
Yet have they served thousands, and all their merit is of God.

OF RIDICULE.

SEAMS of thought for the sage's brow, and laughing lines for the fool's

face;

For all things leave their track in the mind; and the glass of the mind is

faithful.

Seest thou much mirth upon the cheek? there is then little exercise of

virtue;

For he that looketh on the world cannot be glad and good:

Seest thou much gravity in the eye? be not assured of finding wisdom,
For she hath too great praise, not to get many mimics.

There is a grave-faced folly; and verily a laughter-loving wisdom;
And what, if surface-judges account it vain frivolity?

There is indeed an evil in excess, and a field may lie fallow too long;
Yet merriment is often as a froth, that mantleth on the strong mind:
And note thou this for a verity,-the subtlest thinker when alone,
From ease of thoughts unbent, will laugh the loudest with his fellows:
And well is the loveliness of wisdom mirrored in a cheerful countenance;
Justly the deepest pools are proved by dimpling eddies;

For that a true philosophy commandeth an innocent life,
And the unguilty spirit is lighter than a linnet's heart:

Yea, there is no cosmetic like a holy conscience :

The eye is bright with trust, the cheek bloomed over with affection, The brow unwrinkled by a care, and the lip triumphant in its gladness.

And for your grave-faced folly, need not far to look for her;

How seriously on trifles dote those leaden eyes,

How ruefully she sigheth after chances long gone by,

How sulkily she moaneth over evils without cure!

I have known a true-born mirth, the child of innocence and wisdom,
I have seen a base-born gravity, mingled of ignorance and guilt:
And again, a base-born mirth, springing out of carelessness and folly,
And again, a true-born gravity, the product of reflection and right fear.
The wounded partridge hideth in a furrow, and a stricken conscience would

be left alone;

But when its breast is healed, it runneth gladly with its fellows:

Whereas the solitary heron, standing in the sedgy fen,