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Then he came out to his door again, and | And now I feel, as well I may,
merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple-there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"
Sweet Mary! thou art dead:
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
I still might press thy silent heart,
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little But then I lay thee in thy grave,-
slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then
near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hueThinking only of her crested head-poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into
his dismal den,
Within his little parlor-but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may
this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed;
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and
And take a lesson from this tale, of the
IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST
IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
That thou couldst mortal be!
It never through my mind had passed,
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
I do not think, where'er thou art,
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
"AND wherefore do the poor complain?" The rich man ask'd of me: "Come, walk abroad with me," I said, "And I will answer thee."
"Twas evening, and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold;
And we were wrapp'd and coated well, And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old, bareheaded man, His locks were thin and white; I ask'd him what he did abroad In that cold winter's night.
The cold was keen, indeed, he said—
We met a young barefooted child,
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick abed;
And therefore was it she was sent Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
And another at her breast.
I ask'd her why she loiter'd there,
When the night-wind was so chill;
She turn'd her head, and bade the child That scream'd behind, be still—
Then told us that her husband served,
And therefore to her parish she
We met a girl, her dress was loose
I ask'd her what there was in guilt
"And still the coffins came,
With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still,
A sad and sickening show;
From grief exempt, I never had dreamt
Of such a world of Woe!
"Of the hearts that daily break,
That grieve this earthly ball-
"For the blind and the cripple were there,
And the babe that pined for bread, And the houseless man, and the widow poor,
Who begg'd-to bury the dead! The naked, alas! that I might have clad, The famish'd I might have fed!
"The sorrow I might have soothed,
And the unregarded tears;
For many a thronging shape was there,
From long-forgotten years,
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Who raised my childish fears!
"Each pleading look, that long ago
I scann'd with a heedless eye;
As when I pass'd it by;
Woe, woe for me if the past should be
"No need of sulphurous lake,
No need of fiery coal,
But only that crowd of humankind
Who wanted pity and dole
In everlasting retrospect―
Will wring my sinful soul!
"Alas! I have walk'd through life
Too heedless where I trod;
"I drank the richest draughts,
But I never remember'd the wretched ones
"I dress'd as the noble dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,
In many an ample fold;
But I never remember'd the naked limbs, That froze with winter's cold.
"The wounds I might have heal'd!
The human sorrow and smart! And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part:
But evil is wrought by want of Thought, As well as want of Heart!"
She clasp'd her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream; Large, and bitter, and fast they fell,
Remorse was so extreme;
And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame
Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake,
And why does thy nose look so blue!
Then line thy worn doublet with ale,
And warm thy old heart with a glass. "Nay, but credit I've none,
And my money's all gone;
Then say how may that come to pass!
Hie away to the house on the brow,
And knock at the jolly priest's door.
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,
The lawyer lives under the hill,
Warmly fenced both in back and in front "He will fasten his locks,
And will threaten the stocks
Should he evermore find me in want,