And since that day what scenes had he passed through,
    What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld! 
    Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones,
    On frozen banks of Nova Zembla’s coast,
    Or the more fertile climes of Italy;
    There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs,
    And fields of roses yield a rich perfume;
    ’Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise,
    ’Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit,
    Forth he had wandered. 
    Mark the semblance now! 
    For much there is between his childish course
    Upon the river’s bank and his later
    Wanderings.  Then, he chased the butterfly.  Now,
    His inclination led to a pursuit
    More bold, adventurous, and far more grand. 
    Ambition filled his soul.  Sometimes he ran
    In vain; and so it was in boyhood’s days;
    And thus ’t is plainly seen that childhood hours
    Are but an index of our future life,
    And life an index of that yet to come. 
    As on the vessel swept, a tear would ’scape
    Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down
    The sailor’s deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe
    Those recollections with the dew of Thought! 
    Some deem it weak to weep.  Away the thought! 
    It is not weakness when Affection’s fount
    O’erflows its borders, and to man displays
    The feelings that its powers cannot conceal. 
    It is not weakness when our feeble words
    Find utterance only in our flowing tears. 
    Call not such language “weakness”!  Worlds may laugh,
    Yet know no joy like that which often flows
    In silent tears. 
    As nearer drew the seaman to his home,
    As in the distance first he saw the spot
    Where childhood’s hours in happiness were spent,
    His slow pace quickened to a faster walk,
    And, had he had the power, he’d walked the waves,
    And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside,
    To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly
    Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark.

THE POOR OF EARTH.

    I’ve often wondered, as I’ve sat
        Within mine own loved home,
    And thought of those, my fellow-men,
        Who houseless, homeless, roam;
    That one upon this earth is found
        Whose heart good promptings smother;
    And will not share his wealth with him
        Who is his poorer brother! 
    I’ve often wondered, as I’ve walked
        Amid life’s busy throng,
    And seen my fellows who have been
        By Fortune helped along,
    That they who bask in its bright rays
        No tear of pity shed
    On him who doth no “fortune” seek,
        But asks a crust of bread! 
    I’ve seen the gilded temple raised,
        The aspirant of fame
    Ascend the altar’s sacred steps,
        To preach a Saviour’s name,