Its fame o'er the whole world resounds,
Valued at ten thousand pounds,
Beauteous lady none 'ere passed her,
She was the work of an old master.
At last a critic keen did gaze
And saw 'twas work of modern days,
Then quick it was pronounced a daub,
And artist but a money grab.
The true, the noble and the grand,
Will lend to struggling helping hand,
Then let no man of dues be shorn,
If he a subject doth adorn.
LINES ON A FOUNTAIN.
We love cold water as it flows from the fountain,
Which nature hath brewed alone in the mountain;
In the wild woods and in the rocky dell,
Where man hath not been but the deer loves to dwell;
And away across the sea in far distant lands,
In Asia's gloomy jungles and Africa's drifting sands;
Where to the thirsty traveller a charming spot of green
Is by far the rarest gem his eyes have ever seen;
And when he has quenched his thirst at the cooling spring,
With many grateful songs he makes the air to ring;
For many nights he dreams of this scene of bliss,
And when he thinks of Heaven it is of such as this.
THE GATES AJAR.
A good kind man who knew no malice,
Happy with wife and daughter Alice,
More precious far to him than gold,
His little darling six years old.
True nobleman with many friends,
His career too soon it ends,
The casket friends enshrined with flowers,
While soul had fled to heavenly bowers.
The wreaths were lovely, but the star,
Admired by all was gates ajar,
The widow led her little girl
To where death his dart did hurl.