There is n't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin ! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter! We'll have some music, if you're willing, And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir !) Shall march a little. Start, you villain! Than a blasted home and a broken heart. You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change! Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your offi- I had a mother so proud of me ! 'T was well she died before- Do you know He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, I'm better now; that glass was warming. For supper and bed, or starve in the street. But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; The sooner the better for Roger and me! THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND. A FIEND once met a humble man Where music circled sweet; And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's From frost and darkness screened, Ah! well if he ne'er had knelt to that fiend, And when, from rising till set of sun, Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow, O sweet content! The poor man had health, more dear than gold; | Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring? To toil the June day long; And the fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud, 66 Thy strength thou must forego, Or thou no worshipper art of mine"; And the poor man ne'er said "No!" Three children blest the poor man's home, — I want an evening sacrifice"; And the poor man ne'er said "No!" A young wife sat by the poor man's fire, Had gilded his sorrow, and brightened his joys, Foul fall the fiend! he gave command, 66 Come, mix the cup of woe, Bid thy young wife drain it to the dregs"; And the poor man ne'er said "No!" Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears T. DECKER. SWEET IS THE PLEASURE. SWEET is the pleasure Itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure One with true toil? Thou that wouldst taste it, Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere. "T is the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean After its life. Deeper devotion Nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion Heart never felt. "T is loving and serving JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. |