charity; never let your door be closed to the voice of suffering humanity. Your servants, in particular, will have the strongest claim upon your charity; let them be well fed, well clothed, nursed in sickness, and never unjustly treated. THE RETURN OF YOUTH. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. My friend thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light, Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak, And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong, Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days, Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep! A path, thick set with changes and decays, Slopes downward to the place of common sleep; And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy ageDull love of rest, and weariness and fear. Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet Than when at first he took thee by the hand, Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, Life's early glory to thine eyes again, Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not through the silence, to thine ear, A gentle murmur of the morning gales, That sweep the ambrosial groves of that bright shore, And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear, And voices of the loved ones gone before, More musical in that celestial air? THE RICH MERCHANT. A TOUCHING SKETCH. Ir was night, and the streets were nearly deserted, the more especially as it was snowing fast. A single traveller, however, might have been seen, wrapped in a thick over-coat, urging his way against the tempest, by the light of the dim lamps. Suddenly, as he passed a ruinous tenement, the figure of a girl started up before him. 66 Please, sir," said she, "if it's only a' penny, mother is sick, and we have had nothing to eat today." The first impulse of the moment was to go on, the second to stop. He looked at the girl. Her face was thin and pale, and her garments scanty. He was a man of good impulses, so he put his hand towards his pockets, intending to give her a shilling. But the traveller forgot that his overcoat buttoned tight over his pocket. "It is too much trouble," he said to himself, " and this wind is very cutting. Besides, these beggars are usually cheats. I'll warrant this girl wants the money to spend in some gin-shop." And speaking harshly, he said, “I have nothing for you? If you are really destitute, the guardians will take care of you!" The girl shrank back without a word, and drew her tattered garments around her shivering form.— But a tear glistened on her cheek in the light of the dim lamp. The man passed on, and, turning the next corner, soon knocked at the door of a splendid mansion, through whose richly-curtained windows a rosy light streamed out across the storm. A servant obsequiously gave him entrance. At the sound of his footsteps the parlor door was opened, and a beautiful girl, apparently about seventeen, sprang into his arms, kissed him on the cheek, and then began to assist in removing his over-coat. "What kept you so long, dear papa?" she said; "if I had known where you were, I would have sent the carriage. You never stay so late at the office." No, my love, I was at my lawyer's, busy, very busy, and all for you," and he kindly patted her cheek. "" But, now, Maggy, can't you give me some supper?" The daughter rang the bell, and ordered the supper to be served. It was such a one as an epicure would delight in, just the supper for a traveller on a night like that. 66 "I 'Pa," said the daughter, when it was finished, "I hope you are in good humor, for I have a favor to ask of you," and she threw her arms around his neck, and looked up in his face with that winning smile and those beautiful dark eyes of hers. wish to give a ball on my birth-day, my eighteenth birth-day. It will cost, oh! a sight of money; but you are kind, good papa, and I know you have been successful, or you would not have been at your lawyer's." "Yes, my darling," he said, fondly kissing her, "the cotton speculation has turned out well. I sold all I had of the article this afternoon, received the money, and took it to my lawyer's, telling him to invest it in real estate. I think I shall give up the business." "O! do, do, papa. But you will give this ball, won't you?" "You little tease," said her father, but he spoke smilingly; and putting his hand into his pocketbook, he took out a note of five hundred dollars, and placed it in his child's hand. “Take this; if it is not enough you must have another, I suppose. But don't trouble me about it any more." The next morning broke clear, but the snow was a foot deep, and lay here and there in large drifts, blocking up the door-ways. At ten o'clock, the rich merchant was on his way to his counting-room. He turned down the same street up which he had come the preceding evening. A crowd had gathered round the open cellar-door of a ruined tenement. The merchant paused to enquire what was the matter. "A woman, sir, has been found dead below there," said one of the spectators; "she starved to death, it is said, and they have sent for the coroner. Her daughter has just come back, after being out all night; I believe she was begging. That's her, moaning." "Ah!" said the merchant, and a pang went through his heart like an ice-bolt, for he remembered having denied the petitioner the night before. |