My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain: All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live,
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire,
Then here contented will I lie ! Alone, I cannot fear to die.
Alas! ye might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon I yielded to despair;
Why did ye listen to my prayer?
When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; And oh, how grievously I rue,
My Child they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, A most strange working did I see;
As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me:
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child!
My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee.
With happy heart I then would die, And my last thought would happy be; But thou, dear Babe, art far away, Nor shall I see another day.
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR.
The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.
I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills, He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, That, still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him.
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still, when he has given his horse the rein, Watches the aged Beggar with a look Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged beggar coming, quits her work, And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned, The old man does not change his course, the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.
He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground, He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
Of their own kindred; all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds Must needs impress a transitory thought Of self-congratulation, to the heart Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt. Yet further. Many, I believe, there are Who live a life of virtuous decency, Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel No self-reproach; who of the moral law Established in the land where they abide Are strict observers; and not negligent In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, Their kindred, and the children of their blood. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; Go, and demand of him, if there be here In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been, Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out Of some small blessings; have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
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