A Chimney sweeper's climbing boy But, nearer drawn, I could descry A cheerful face, an artless eye, A ragged leathern cap he wore, A brush and scraper filled his hands ; Why dost thou, little boy, I said, "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 hard 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 O wretch, I cried, he's black within, But thou hast but a tarnished skin, “I'm five a half, the neighbours say, 'Twas undisguised truth I heard The story filled my heart with woe, I sighed adieu! poor hapless Joe! T. E. ABBOTT. Verses Written in the Church-yard of Richmond, Yorkshire. METHINKS it is good to be here, Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. 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 Shall we build to the palace of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain, And here in the grave are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah! no; they have wither'd and died, Or fled with the spirit above Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 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 skies. HERBERT KNOWLES. The Passing Bell. THY solemn music loads the gale, Mournful, deep funereal bell! Soon as night her ebon throne Resigns; thou mak'st thy plaintive moan. Is it a parent's dirge I hear? Or o'er a child's lamented bier Pour'st thou thy sadly solemn knell, Mournful, deep, funereal bell! |