ND wherefore do the poor complain?" The rich man asked of me;

"Come walk abroad with me," I said,

And I will answer thee."

106

THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.

'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 few and white;
I asked him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night.

The cold was keen indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.

We met a young barefooted child,
And she begg'd loud and bold ;

I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.

She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a-bed,

And therefore was it she was sent

Abroad, to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down

Upon a stone to rest,
She had a baby at her back,

And another at her breast.

THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.

107

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
A soldier, far away,

And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.

I turn'd me to the rich man then,

For silently stood he

"You ask me why the poor complain,
And these have answered thee."

[Though not, perhaps, entitled to a place in the foremost rank of English poets, the name of ROBERT SOUTHEY must ever be dear to the lovers of English literature, as that of a diligent, talented, and honest-minded man. With the exception of certain rather violent outpourings of his youthful muse, which drew upon him the strictures of the critics and the ridicule of many, there is nothing among the voluminous works of Southey which the writer need wish expunged. His prose writings are very valuable, especially his biographical works. His longer poems are less successful than his shorter ballads, many of which have become exceedingly popular. Southey was made poet-laureate in 1813, and in his declining days obtained a well-earned pension of £300. He died in 1843, at the age of sixty-nine, and was succeeded in the laureateship by Wordsworth.]

H

An Epicedium.

E left his home with a bounding heart,
For the world was all before him;
And felt it scarce a pain to part,

Such sun-bright beams came o'er him.
He turned him to visions of future years,

The rainbow's hues were round him; And a father's bodings-a mother's tears— Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them.

That mother's cheek is far paler now

Than when she last caressed him ;

There's an added gloom on that father's brow,
Since the hour when last he blessed him.

Oh! that all human hopes should prove
Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow;

And the cankering fears of anxious love
Ever end in ruth and sorrow.

He left his home with a swelling sail,
Of fame and fortune dreaming-
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale,
Or the pennon above him streaming.
He hath reached his goal;-by a distant wave,
'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him ;
And stranger forms bent o'er his grave,
When the last sad rites were paid him.

He should have died in his own loved land,
With friends and kinsmen near him;

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

Not have withered thus on a foreign strand,
With no thought, save heaven, to cheer him.
But what recks it now? Is his sleep less sound

In the port where the wild winds swept him,
Than if home's green turf his grave had bound,
Or the hearts he loved had wept him?

Then why repine? Can he feel the rays
That pestilent sun sheds o'er him?
Or share the grief that may cloud the days
Of the friends who now deplore him?
No-his bark's at anchor-its sails are furled—
It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding;
And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world,
In a haven of peace is riding.

109

ALARIC WATTS.

She was a Phantom of Delight.

HE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;