For city trouble, any one will find, Is more ingenious than the country kind, And has a thousand cute-invented ways To torture men and shorten off their days. And while we wonder that God made it so, He doesn't seem very anxious we should know; But He is willing we should search His plan, And pry around and find out all we can; And I suspect, when pains and troubles fall, That every one is useful, after all. At any rate, the miseries that I see Are useful in their good effects on me; And though that isn't a great thing, on the whole (Though Heaven _does_ put a premium on each soul), Yet there are several people, I suspect, Who need a little of that same effect; And if they do not get it, old and young, 'Twill be because I've lost my poor old tongue. One more small portion of God's plan I see Concerning its effect on "even me:" And that's its leading me, by methods queer, To be some help to these poor people here. For now I promise, from this very night, And hereby put it down in black and white, That out of every day that's given me yet, And out of every dollar I can get, And out of every talent, small or large, That God sees fit to put into my charge, A part shall be devoted--square and sure-- To God's own suffering, struggling, dying poor! [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] Poverty, why wast thou born In the world's earliest morn? Why hast thou lived all the years, Sowing thy pains and thy tears? Roaming about thou art seen, Crooked, decrepit, and lean; Travelling all the world through-- Suffering's "wandering Jew." Thin and unkempt is thy hair, Fleshless as parchment thy cheek, Sad and ungainly thine air, Hollow the words thou dost speak, Bony and grasping thy hand, Dreary thy days in the land. Poverty, why wast thou born Under the world's quiet scorn? * * * * * 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--.