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A Chimney sweeper's climbing boy
Soon caught my anxious eye,
Dipt in the blackest dye.
But, nearer drawn, I could descry
What thousands cannot show, A cheerful face, an artless eye,
And teeth as white as snow.
A ragged leathern cap he wore,
His face was deeply stained ;
Save soot and filth engrained.
A brush and scraper filled his hands ;
But though his feet were bare, To tread the sharp and hottest sands
Appeared his earnest care.
Why dost thou, little boy, I said,
Walk on the hottest ground ! Whilst here, where I am glad to tread,
The cooling sod is found.
“ Because I have no shoes,” he cried,
“ And this is nicely warm ;” 'Twill cut your feet I then replied,
And do still greater harm.
“ No, sir," he cried, “ they're bard as wood,
“ And when there's ice and snow, “ I like to run along the road
“ Until it make them glow.
“ But I've a pair of shoes, they say
“ I must for Sundays keep; “ 'Cause then my master drinks all day,
« And I dont go to sweep.”
O wretch, I cried, he's black within,
Is this his vile employ?
How old art thou my boy?
“ I'm five a half, the neighbours say,
“ I know not what they meant; 6 At Christmas father ran away,
“ And mother died at Lent.”
'Twas undisguised truth I heard
Drop from an orphan's lips ; Aş spotless as yon downy bird
That plucks the ripening hips.
The story filled my heart with woe,
Which he could cheerly tell ;
T. E. ABBOTT.
Written in the Church-yard of Richmond, Yorkshire.
METHINKS it is good to be here,
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah! no : Affrighted he shrinketh away ;
For see ! they would pin him below To a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty ? Ah! no; she forgets The charms that she wielded before :
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.
Shall we build to the palace of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas! they are all laid aside,
And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,
To Riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain,
The treasures are squander'd again ;
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
Ah ! here is a plentiful board,
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Or fled with the spirit above-
Unto Sorrow? the dead cannot grieve, Not a sob, nor a sigh, meets mine ear
Which compassion itself could relieve; Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no; for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow; Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ;
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the
The passing Bell.
Thy solemn music loads the gale,
Is it a parent's dirge I hear ?