248 THE FORSAKEN. THE FORSAKEN. O THOU whose brow, serene and calm, View not with scorn that lost one's fate, Though in thy lovely form and face Yet shrink not from that faded form Thou in thy father's home may dwell Yet pity her, though friendless now, She once was blest like thee. Perchance the smiles of love are thine, Its joyful ecstasy ; Then weep for that forsaken one, She once was loved like thee. And still, 'mid shame, and guilt, and woe. Who makes thee blest, and pours on her He knows the secret lure that led Her youthful steps astray; THE FAIRY'S GIFT. He knows that thou, in all thy pride, Then, with the love of Him who said, 249 SACRED OFFERING. THE FAIRY'S GIFT. O DID you not hear in your nursery Of two young girls that came to drink At a certain fairy well? The words of the younger were as sweet But the tongue of the eldest seemed to move At the well a beggar accosted them, (A sprite, in mean disguise,) The eldest spake with a scornful brow, The younger with tear-dimmed eyes. Cried the fairy, "Whenever you speak, sweet girl, Pure gems from your lips shall fall; 250 DON'T FRET. But whenever you utter a word, proud maid, And have you not met with these sisters oft, The first is GOOD NATURE. Diamonds bright The last is SLANDER — leaving the blight - Of the snake, wherever she goes. DON'T FRET. HAS a neighbor injured you? Don't fret: You will yet come off the best; He's the most to answer for, Never mind it, let it rest. Don't fret: Has a wicked lie been told? Don't fret: It will run itself to death, If you let it quite alone, Don't fret. THANKFULNESS. Are your enemies at work? Don't fret: They can't injure you a whit ; If they find you heed them not, Don't fret. Is adversity your lot? Don't fret: Fortune's wheel keeps turning round, Don't fret. THANKFULNESS. SOME murmur when their sky is clear If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue; And some with thankful love are filled, One ray of God's great mercy gild The darkness of their night. In palaces are hearts that ask, 251 Why life is such a weary task, O HUMBLY take what God bestows, HOPE. THE night is mother of the day, And ever upon old decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight lurks; Has left his hope with all. J. G. WHITTIER. |