And she is rich, although her only wealth

Is recollection of a well-spent life—

Is expectation of the life to come.

Examine here, explore the narrow path

In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds
In history's arena, where the prize

Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts.
Peruse the lives themselves of men obscure:-
There charity, that robs itself to give;
There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want;
There courage, that expects no tongue to praise;
There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid,
With no alloy of selfish motive mix'd.

The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread,
Is prized more highly in the sight of him

Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from hands
That scarce can know their countless treasures less:
Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast
To see distress, and feel his willing arm
Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven;
While ponderous bequests of lands and goods
Ne'er rise above their earthly origin.

And should all bounty, that is clothed with power
Be deemed unworthy?-Far be such a thought!
Even when the rich bestow, there are sure tests
Of genuine charity;-yes, yes, let wealth
Give other alms than silver or than gold,—
Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness,

Exposure to disease;-yes, let the rich

Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof;
Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart,
And hopes of health, the melancholy range
Of couches in the public wards of woe:
There let them often bless the sick man's bed,
With kind assurances that all is well

At home, that plenty smiles upon the board,—
The while the hand that earn'd the frugal meal
Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks.
Above all duties, let the rich man search
Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn

The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime.
Ye, bless'd with wealth! (another name for power
Of doing good,) O would ye but devote
A little portion of each seventh day
To acts of justice to your fellow-men!
The house of mourning silently invites:
Shun not the crowded alley; prompt descend
Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp;
Nor seem impatient to be gone: inquire,
Console, instruct, encourage, soothe, assist;
Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord;
Make tears of joy down grief-worn furrows flow.

O Health! the sun of life, without whose beam
The fairest scenes of nature seem involved
In darkness, shine upon my dreary path
Once more; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope,

That I may yet enjoy thy vital ray!

Though transient be the hope, 'twill be most sweet,
Like midnight music, stealing on the ear,

Then gliding past, and dying slow away.
Music! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved
Most vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul;
So light its loveliest effect displays

In lowering skies, when through the murky rack
A slanting sunbeam shoots, and instant limns
The ethereal curve of seven harmonious dyes,
Eliciting a splendor from the gloom:

O Music! still vouchsafe to tranquillize

This breast perturb'd; thy voice, though mournful, soothes;
And mournful, aye, are thy most beauteous lays,
Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs,—
The autumn of the spring. Enchanting power!
Who, by thy airy spell, canst whirl the mind
Far from the busy haunts of men, to vales
Where Tweed or Yarrow flows; or, spurning time
Recall red Flodden field; or suddenly
Transport, with alter'd strain, the deafen'd ear
To Linden's plain!-But what the pastoral lay,
The melting dirge, the battle's trumpet-peal,
Compared to notes with sacred numbers link'd
In union, solemn, grand! O then the spirit,
Upborne on pinions of celestial sound,

Soars to the throne of God, and ravish'd hears

Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise

In halleluiahs;-voices, that erewhile.

Were feebly tuned perhaps to low-breath'd hymns
Of solace in the chambers of the poor,-
The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick.
Bless'd be the female votaries, whose days.
No Sabbath of their pious labors prove,
Whose lives are consecrated to the toil
Of ministering around the uncurtain'd couch
Of pain and poverty! Bless'd be the hands,
The lovely hands, (for beauty, youth, and grace,
Are oft conceal'd by Pity's closest veil,)

That mix the cup medicinal, that bind

The wounds which ruthless warfare and disease
Have to the loathsome lazar-house consign'd.
Fierce Superstition of the mitred king!
Almost I could forget thy torch and stake,
When I this blessed sisterhood survey,-
Compassion's priestesses, disciples true

Of him whose touch was health, whose single word
Electrified with life the palsied arm,-

Of him who said, Take up thy bed and walk,—
Of him who cried to Lazarus, Come forth

And he who cried to Lazarus, Come forth,
Will, when the Sabbath of the tomb is past,
Call forth the dead, and re-unite the dust
(Transform'd and purified) to angel souls.
Ecstatic hope! belief! conviction firm!
How grateful 'tis to recollect the time.

When hope arose to faith! Faintly at first
The heavenly voice is heard; then, by degrees,
Its music sounds perpetual in the heart.
Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long
Has dwelt in city crowds, wandering a-field
Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring
Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears

The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song,
Check'd by the chill ungenial northern breeze;
But, as the sun ascends, another springs,
And still another soars on loftier wing,
Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir unseen,
Poised welkin high, harmonious fills the air,
As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven.