“Then tell me why those tear-drops?
What means this woeful mood
Say, has the tax-collector
Been calling, and been rude?
“Or has that hateful grocer,
The slave! been here to-day?
Of course he had, by morrow’s noon,
A heavy bill to pay!
“Come, on thy brother’s bosom
Unburden all thy woes;
Look up, look up, sweet sister;
Nay, sob not through thy nose.”
“Oh, John, ’tis not the grocer
Or his account, although
How ever he is to be paid
I really do not know.
“’Tis not the tax-collector;
Though by his fell command
They’ve seized our old paternal clock,
And new umbrella-stand!
“Nor that Augustus Howard,
Whom I despise almost,—
But the soot’s come down the chimney, John,
And fairly spoilt the roast!”
Comfort in Affliction.
“Wherefore starts my bosom’s lord?
Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart’s chord
Had broken with that sigh!
“Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
Are gathering on thy brow.
“There, again! that fevered start!
What, love! husband! is thy pain?
There is a sorrow on thy heart,
A weight upon thy brain!