Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 40

NATURE'S fair daughter, Beautiful water!

O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth, Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth.

Down from the mountain, Up from the fountain, Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear, From the Creator, our pathway to cheer.

n.o.bly appearing, O'er cliffs careering, Pouring impetuously on to the sea, Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free.

See how it flashes As onward it dashes Over the pebbly bed of the brook, Singing in every sequestered nook.

Now gently falling, As if 't were calling Spirits of beauty from forest and dell To welcome it on to grotto and cell.

Beauteous and bright Gleams it in light, Then silently flows beneath the deep glade, Emblem of life in its suns.h.i.+ne and shade.

Beautiful water!

Nature's fair daughter!

Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth, Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth.

THE TEST OF FRIENDs.h.i.+P.

BRIGHTEST s.h.i.+ne the stars above When the night is darkest round us; Those the friends we dearest love Who were near when sorrow bound us.

When no clouds o'ercast our sky, When no evil doth attend us, Then will many gather nigh, Ever ready to befriend us.

But when darkness shades our path, When misfortune hath its hour, When we lie beneath its wrath, Some will leave us to its power.

Often have we seen at night, When the clouds have gathered o'er us, One lone star send forth its light, Marking out the path before us.

Like that star some friendly eye Will beam on us in our sorrow; And, though clouded be our sky, We know there'll be a better morrow.

We know that all will not depart, That some will, gather round to cheer us: Know we, in our inmost heart, Tried and faithful friends are near us.

Brother, those who do not go May be deemd friends forever; Love them, trust them, have them know Nothing can your friends.h.i.+p sever.

WEEP NOT.

WEEP not, mother, For another Tie that bound thyself to earth Now is sundered, And is numbered With those of a heavenly birth.

She hath left thee.

G.o.d bereft thee Of thy dearest earthly friend; Yet thou'lt meet her, Thou wilt greet her Where reunions have no end Her life's true sun Its course did run From morn unto meridian day; And now at eve It takes its leave, Calmly pa.s.sing hence away.

Watch the spirit- 'T will inherit Bliss which mortal cannot tell; From another World, my mother, Angels whisper, "All is well."

'Way with sadness!

There is gladness In a gathered spirit throng; She, ascended, Trials ended, Joins their ranks and chants their song.

Weep not, mother, For another Tie doth bind thyself above; Doubts are vanished, Sorrows banished, She is happy whom you love.

RICH AND POOR.

"GOOD-BY, Ray, good-by," said George Greenville; and the stage wound its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view.

"Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When will all these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he entered the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open window.

"Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret to the remark.

"Why?" resumed the owner of a thousand acres; "ask me no questions; I am glad,--that's enough. You well know my mind on the subject."

"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his kindness?"

"Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 't was kindness that prompted him to do me a favor; rather say 't was his duty,--and of you should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visit Lemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?"

Saying this, he arose and left the room.

George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He looked across the verdant fields, and mused upon his pa.s.sionate remarks.

"Well," thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the G.o.d of Mammon to bind me down? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we can with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities of our fellow-men? Shall we h.o.a.rd them up, or shall we not rather give with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt misfortune's scourging rod,--who are crushed, oppressed and trampled upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?" In such a train of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived.

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessing those fine qualities of mind that const.i.tute the true gentleman. His countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure pa.s.sport to the best of society. When the time came that George was to return home to the companions.h.i.+p of his friends, they found that ties of friends.h.i.+p bound them which could not be easily severed, and Ray accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and spend a short time at the house of his father. The week had pa.s.sed away in a pleasant manner. The hour of parting had come and gone; The farewell had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, when the conversation above mentioned pa.s.sed between him and his father.

The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray were poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latter encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor with a.s.siduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus were the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scorned the idea of having his son a.s.sociate with a pauper, as he termed all those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of money,--without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to a.s.sociate with the rich.

"Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would suppose," said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his father at the dinner-table.

"George, I have set my heart against him," was the reply.

"Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open to conviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence, will you believe?"

"That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthy young man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace!

I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed away. Ray Bland is a pauper, that's my only charge against him; and all the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or move me an iota from the stand I have taken,--which is, now and ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you do the same."

Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversation, inquiring of her father whether it was against his will for her to a.s.sociate with the poor.

"Precisely so," was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. The father left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilst George and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a long time, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutual attachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked upon with indifference by the sister of the former; and she determined upon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the good will of her father; she resolved, like a n.o.ble girl, to cherish a social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. He who knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with what constancy she adhered to this determination. The command of her father not to a.s.sociate with the poor only served to strengthen her resolution, for she knew with what obstacles her brother would have to contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow a fellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means to relieve him.

"Do you think father was in earnest in what he said?" inquired Amelia.