Poverty, thou hast been seen
Clad in a comelier mien.
Oft, to the clear-seeing eyes,
Thou art a saint in disguise.
Discipline rich thou hast brought,
Lessons of labor and thought.
Oft, in thy dreariest night,
Virtue gleams sturdy and bright;
Oft, from thy scantiest hour,
Grow the beginnings of power;
Oft, 'mongst thy squalors and needs
Live such magnificent deeds
As the proud angels will crown
There in their gold-streeted town;
Oft, from thy high garrets, throng
Notes of magnificent song,
That, from sad day unto day,
Float through the ages away.
Poverty—brave or forlorn—
God knoweth why thou wast born.
[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]
February 12, 18—.
Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day;
'Twould have been sad to see it go away,
If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lights
Glimmered awhile across the Jersey heights,
Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, came
And set some New York windows all aflame.
(From a clear sunset I can always borrow
God's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.)
But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight,
My mind would take a heavy, care-winged flight
Up to a small back garret, far away,
Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day.
Want—want—want—want! it hung 'round everywhere;
It threw its odors on the sickly air!
The room was somewhat smaller, to begin,
Than I would put a span of horses in;
The floor was rough and damp as floor could be;
No picture on the walls but Poverty;
The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear;
A rough-made, empty crib was standing near;
The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare,
Or breathed a breath of good old-fashioned air;
"YES, IT'S STRAIGHT AND TRUE, GOOD PREACHER, EVERY WORD THAT YOU HAVE SAID."