The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the storm increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes in sleep.
At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound.
Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their conversation.
Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning," exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started up and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of a sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the house was in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!" shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be in danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of poor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings of anguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children and neighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previous life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his past conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more liberal hand than that of old George Greenville.
In the course of a few months a new and spacious building was erected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors say that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose aristocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, between the rich and poor.
THE HOMEWARD BOUND.
SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck,
While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past,
Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear:
For in imagination he could see
Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport
Upon a river's bank, quite near his home,
Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress
Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase,
Upon some mossy stone he sat him down;
Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade
Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow;
Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps,
Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play.
And since that day what scenes had he passed through,
What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld!
Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones,
On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast,
Or the more fertile climes of Italy;
There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs,
And fields of roses yield a rich perfume;
'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise,
'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit,
Forth he had wandered.
Mark the semblance now!
For much there is between his childish course
Upon the river's bank and his later
Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now,
His inclination led to a pursuit
More bold, adventurous, and far more grand.
Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran
In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days;
And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours
Are but an index of our future life,
And life an index of that yet to come.
As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape
Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down
The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe
Those recollections with the dew of Thought!
Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought!
It is not weakness when Affection's fount
O'erflows its borders, and to man displays
The feelings that its powers cannot conceal.
It is not weakness when our feeble words
Find utterance only in our flowing tears.
Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh,
Yet know no joy like that which often flows
In silent tears.
As nearer drew the seaman to his home,
As in the distance first he saw the spot
Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent,
His slow pace quickened to a faster walk,
And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves,
And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside,
To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly
Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark.
THE POOR OF EARTH.
I'VE often wondered, as I've sat
Within mine own loved home,
And thought of those, my fellow-men,
Who houseless, homeless, roam;
That one upon this earth is found
Whose heart good promptings smother;
And will not share his wealth with him
Who is his poorer brother!
I've often wondered, as I've walked
Amid life's busy throng,
And seen my fellows who have been
By Fortune helped along,
That they who bask in its bright rays
No tear of pity shed
On him who doth no "fortune" seek,
But asks a crust of bread!
I've seen the gilded temple raised,
The aspirant of fame
Ascend the altar's sacred steps,
To preach a Saviour's name,
And wondered, as I stood and gazed
At those rich-cushioned pews,
Where he who bears the poor man's fate
Might hear Salvation's news.
I've walked within the church-yard's walls,
With holy dread and fear,
And on its marble tablets read
"None but the rich lie here."
I've wandered till I came upon
A heap of moss-grown stones,
And some one whispered in mine ear,
"Here rest the poor man's bones."
My spirit wandered on, until
It left the scenes of earth;
Until I stood with those who'd passed
Through death, the second birth.
And I inquired, with holy awe,
"Who are they within this fold,
Who seem to be Heaven's favorite,
And wear those crowns of gold?"
Then a being came unto me,
One of angelic birth,
And in most heavenly accents said,
"Those were the poor of earth."
Then from my dream I woke, but
Will ne'er forget its worth;
For ever since that vision
I have loved "the poor of earth."
And when I see them toiling on
To earn their daily bread,
And dire oppression crush them down,
Till every joy hath fled,—
I mind me of that better world,
And of that heavenly fold,
Where every crown of thorns gives place
Unto a crown of gold.